


Small In A Big World

by ironmittens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sometimes), Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting, Little Steve Rogers, Littles Are Known, Negotiations, Non-Sexual Age Play, Platonic Cuddling, Pretty much Avengers (2012) compliant except different first meeting, alternate universe - classifications, alternate universe - littles are known, caregiver tony stark, implied PTSD, little verse, there's communication sometimes whoa, they get there though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmittens/pseuds/ironmittens
Summary: Steve Rogers is adamant that he can go his whole life keeping his classification a secret, avoid being a burden to others as much as possible and focus on the real worries, the things that are far, far greater than him. Tony Stark is convinced that he's better off supporting Littles from a distance as much as possible, and maybe, just maybe, he's internalized the idea from various tabloids over the years that he could never be an adequate caregiver.It's alarming, really, the emergencies that keep bringing them together.
Relationships: (Eventual) Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 147
Kudos: 242





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! sooo i've decided to make an account specifically for posting non-sexual age play fics. little!steve with cg!tony appears to be less common from what i’ve seen so i'm excited to have a crack at it :D 
> 
> a general trigger warning for the entire fic, but also chapter one in particular: there are outdated views expressed about littles, and a fair amount of emotional repression, steve and tony often aren’t the kindest to themselves, but i promise there will also be lots of comfort and (hopefully) learning for the pair of them! 
> 
> this will also have alternating POV's, one POV per chapter generally
> 
> anyways, that's all i can think to say for now so enjoy the first chapter! <3

**_CLASSIFICATIONS: A MIRACLE CURE?_ **

_February 2nd, 1945_

_Approximately 100 members of the American Classification Research Institute (ACRI), supporters and information seekers heard Samantha Miller, prominent ACRI leader, discuss at length the recent movement towards medication as a means of restoring balance to those classified as Littles at an ACRI work conference in New Jersey. Miller sought to dispel any rumors that these classified individuals require chemical intervention to eradicate any feelings of being younger than they, in actuality, are._

_She put forth that management of the condition can only be achieved by allowing these individuals to remain as their younger selves indefinitely, as physical ailments have been found to result from prolonged periods of normal adulthood. Her associate Mark Hullsworth, another prominent ACRI leader, went on to add that an estimated 1% of the American population falls into this classification, thus hindering governmental funding for chemical intervention and clinical treatment. These limitations further many people’s belief in the continuation of nation-wide restrictions on the recruitment of Littles into the workforce, as well as the mandatory assignment of caregivers, who take on the role of legal guardians._

~

The first time Steve can recall _really_ feeling small was when the news of his Ma’s death was delivered to him. A peaceful death, they said, but Steve didn’t trust that, he got the feeling that was something they told everyone, to make them feel just a little bit better about losing their loved one. Still, he likes to think it was a peaceful death. 

He felt... _strange_ , during the funeral, light-headed almost, swaying a little where he stood. His asthma wasn’t acting up, but simple things did tend to make him feel tired, so he just tried to consciously straighten himself and brush off Bucky’s offers for something to lean on. 

Then, when all was said and done, Bucky accompanied him to his apartment and he set about fixing himself a glass of water, trying to go through the things he’d eaten that day. It wasn’t a whole lot; not anything that would cause a reaction, in his experience. He collapsed down onto his bed, pure misery tightening in his chest, settling in his throat, to the point of being hard to _breathe_ around. 

A distinct sense of...fuzziness, was the only way to describe it, previously clear thoughts slipping through his fingers, gaze lingering on his blankets almost without his conscious awareness and his fingers twisting up in his shirt. He was used to feeling small, but at that moment he felt _small_ , too small to exist in the world, his thoughts jumbled and his only urge to find something he could curl up with. 

Across the room, Bucky frowned. “Doin’ alright, pal?” He paused. “Ah shit, I know that’s a stupid question, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m fine,” he insisted, even as he laid down on his bed, knees coming up to his chest and arms circling them almost of their own accord. 

“Don’t look fine t’me,” he said, as he stood up and approached Steve’s bed, ignoring the ominous groan it gave when he sat down at the end of it, resting a hand on Steve’s leg. 

“You wanna talk or you wanna just sit here?”

To others, the question might’ve seemed judgemental, but Steve knew that Bucky was genuinely asking. Steve curled up further, a sudden onslaught of tears stinging at his eyes. 

“Sit here,” he mumbled, feeling only a slight twinge of humiliation. 

Minutes passed. Steve could feel the warmth of Bucky’s hand against his skin as he rubbed absently up and down his calf, and the steady motion of it had him melting further into the bed, his train of thought coming to a gradual halt. 

Another ten minutes. He felt small, and helpless, in a way he’d never allowed himself to feel, despite all that ailed him. It wasn’t necessarily a new feeling entirely, it had just never felt so _intense_ before, so all-consuming, like a tidal wave that was hellbent on engulfing him. 

“Hey,” Bucky piped up suddenly, voice soft. 

Steve jerked a little, eyes wide as he directed his gaze up at him. He could feel the tears streaking his face, but he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t hold them back all of a sudden, why they seemed to keep on coming, rattling through his chest and making his breaths come out in short, sharp puffs despite his best efforts.

“‘M sorry, Buck,” he mumbled, fingers tightening on the patched-up blanket in his clutches. 

“What’re you sorry for, punk? Reacting to your Mother’s funeral like a regular old human being?” 

“Didn’t wanna...wanna put this all on you.” 

Bucky seemed a little taken aback by the openness, eyebrows steadily climbing his forehead. “Hey, what are friends for? Know you’d do the same for me.” 

“I would, Buck...I would.” 

Steve shudders just thinking about that night. He’d wet the bed in his sleep, like a _kid_ , and Bucky had tentatively broached the subject of classifications with him, told him about this relative he knew who was a Little, who had similar problems. All the while, Steve just wanted the ground to swallow him up, for the humiliation burning on his face to let up. He hated it, hated absolutely all of it, he already had so much to deal with and then _that_ gets dumped on him? 

Now, though. Now he’s willing to do damn near _anything_ to get even embarrassing moments like that back again, wants it so desperately his chest borderline _aches_ with it, despite the serum. 

It’s useless, getting lost in the things he _wants._ Unproductive. 

Still, he can never quite keep himself from thinking about it. 

~

It’s a peaceful evening at their base, a respite from the madness of their latest mission to sabotage Hydra’s mobilization of armed forces. 

Through the window, the sky is a canvas of black, set alight by thousands of stars, not buried beneath clouds or light pollution. Not where they are. Crickets chirp outside, and the sounds of general chatter and excited yells of triumph reach Steve’s ears, pitched up a little by the alcohol that’s no doubt already flowing. It’s still taking some getting used to; even after almost two years since the serum, since he’d watched one of the first men to really _believe_ in him die, being able to hear and smell and see beyond what any regular person can. There are moments when it all overloads his senses, and he feels panic tighten in his chest, but he’s always quick to push through it, to shove it back into the darker recesses of his mind. Panic doesn’t belong on the field, doesn’t even belong off the field, not when there are things to worry about that are far, _far_ greater than him. 

Bucky sits on the makeshift bed opposite him, obscured a little by the darkness that hangs over them, but Steve can see the perceptive spark in his eye, the shrewd expression that always causes his lips to quirk slightly downwards, likely without him even realizing it. Steve acts indifferent to it, flicking idly through some of his sketches, squinting only a little to see them. Moonlight pours in, bathes the side of his bed in a silvery glow. 

“We ever gonna talk about this?” Bucky asks finally, shifting a little to get closer. 

Steve knows almost instantly what he means, though he wishes he doesn’t. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, Buck,” he says, going for absence, furrowing his eyebrows a little in faux-concentration as he stops at one particular drawing and examines it. 

Bucky lowers his voice, gaze darting toward the windows, “I know that serum didn’t change the fact that you’re a Little. Think I’m stupid enough to not notice pacifying behaviors when I see ‘em? You’ve gone too long now.” 

Really, Steve should be thankful that he hadn’t brought up the very obvious elephant in the room sooner. He hates that Bucky has to be the only person to know; he doesn’t like putting the burden on someone like that, making them feel responsible for him. All his life, he’s had to deal with being a burden, a liability, a disappointment. The serum was by no means classification-altering, he knows that. He also knows that there are more important things to be getting caught up in than his own comfort. 

“I’m _fine_. I’ve been _fine_. I appreciate you trying to look out for me but...that’s not exactly what’s on my mind right now.” 

It’s a lie, but it rolls off his tongue with surprising ease. The serum takes care of any of the physical ramifications of not dropping, but his thoughts tumble further into disarray the longer he goes on suppressing the part of his brain that wants to be small. He’d heard about some of the classification tests that had been in development towards the beginning of the 20th century, but in the face of the Great Depression a lot of that research had been discontinued, and even now, they aren’t all that reliable, or widespread.

Littles are expected to come forward so that they can be registered, but that was never an option for Steve; he had a host of physical ailments that already made him undesirable for not only the workforce but for the army, he certainly didn’t need to go adding his classification to that list. Anything related to a Little’s time being small is kept behind closed doors, behind shut curtains, and even now people tend towards not acknowledging their existence. If word gets out that Captain America is a Little, questions would most certainly be raised as to whether he should even be in _any_ line of work, let alone on a specialized team within the army that’s facing up against Hydra. 

“I’m just sayin’. I don’t think it’s healthy. From what I’ve read, there’s a lotta Littles out there who spend a majority of their time being small. They’ve seen a lotta nervous breakdowns in the ones that repress it like you do.” 

“The serum pretty much took care of my health for life. I’m _fine_. Can we not keep talking about this? I liked that other conversation we were havin’ earlier.”

Bucky snorts. “You mean the one where I was tellin’ you how I spilled soda all over myself in front of that pretty dame?”

“Exactly that,” Steve agrees, a smile tugging at his mouth, “let’s go back to that. Better yet, got any other stories along those lines you haven’t shared yet?” 

“Tried sayin’ hello to Peggy the other day and tripped over my own feet,” Bucky sighs, laying back down on the bed, “not the finest moment of my life.” 

“Oh, yeah, think I saw that actually. Knew I was laughing about _something_ the other day.”

“Jerk,” Bucky huffs, but there’s no heat to it.

Lively swing music starts up somewhere outside, joining the cacophony of voices, and Steve glances over his shoulder with a disbelieving laugh. 

“They got themselves a radio out there?” Bucky asks, craning his neck a little to see through the window. 

“I don’t ask questions anymore,” says Steve, amused. 

He likes these nights; likes the noise and the rambunctious laughter and the renewed sense of purpose it instills in him, always reminding him of what he’s fighting for. Sometimes, when he gets particularly caught up in all the chaos, or when a life is taken that none of them intended to take, Erskine’s words will drift to the forefront of his mind, and a sense of resolve always comes over him. He’s seen the ugliest possible side of humanity with his own two eyes, but during nights like these, he sees the good too, he sees the happiness people can bring one another, he sees that people can care for one another just as much as they can destroy one another. That’s what keeps the fire going inside his chest — if they can make the most out of these moments, among all the darkness, then they can sure as hell make the most of the future, when the war is over and things finally settle down. 

“Steve? If you’re ever havin’ a hard time with...well, feelin’ small, you’ll come to me, right?” 

Steve lets out a breath, averts his gaze. “Only If it’s unavoidable. You know I don’t like bothering you.”

“It’s no bother, but you have a funny habit of not believin’ me when I say that so I guess I’ll take it.” 

Bucky reaches over to give Steve’s shoulder a squeeze, who, in turn, offers him a small smile. 

He likes nights like these. 

~

It happens just a few weeks later.

The night after he watches his best friend fall into a snowy chasm after not being quick enough to save him, Steve cries until his pillow is soaked through with tears and his throat is raw, shoulders heaving with soundless sobs and a foreign fuzziness filling his brain, muddying his thoughts and making the world around him seem oh, so big. His slacks reek of the alcohol he’d spilled all over himself, hands shaking with the effort of not exerting too much force and shattering the tumbler to pieces. He’s always been somewhat of a quiet crier, on the few occasions he’d _really_ let himself cry. This time, the plaintive wails that claw their way up his throat seem never-ending, harsh and grating even to his own ears. He doesn’t know how to even _begin_ to unravel the heavy feeling that coils tight in his stomach, or the void of emptiness that has settled inside his chest, an echo chamber of all the feelings he’s ever repressed bubbling up to the surface, all the anger and the sorrow and the _guilt_.

It’s scary, to be bombarded by this cocktail of emotions all at once, to not be able to shove it back down like he’s done countless times before. He’s looked hundreds of Hydra operatives in the eye and not felt even a twinge of fear, but this, right here? This is _terrifying_. 

The confusingly blurry feeling is encroaching, a gradual shift that has his thoughts slowing right down, has his almost constant awareness of the environment around him fading to the very recesses of his mind, until all he can register are the hitching breaths that are still rattling their way through his lungs. 

He feels small, and scared, and he wishes the entire world would go away for a while, so that he doesn’t have to confront any of the events of the past 48 hours. 

A small part of his brain thinks, rather miserably, that he really wouldn’t mind a hug right now either.

Steve curls up into a ball and makes himself as small as possible under the blankets. 

~

He doesn’t remember much from the past few years except all-consuming darkness and bone-chilling cold. What he _does_ know, however, is that this isn’t _right_. The empty room, the radio broadcast, the surrounding noise, none of it feels real, he feels it almost instinctively in his gut, a distinct sense of _wrongness_. He’s woken up in hospital once or twice, if an injury from a mission wasn’t healing quick enough with the aid of the serum alone, and this feels like a movie set, like a washed-out parody of a real hospital.

There is absolutely no way Steve Rogers survived that plane crash. 

Confusion and anger and fear surge in his chest, not at all helped by the woman that speaks to him in soft tones, voice pitched down in an effort to be soothing. His heart is in his throat when men dressed in tac gear charge in, and he sprints for it without thinking twice, crashing bodily into the adjacent wall and weaving through the crowds, the people dressed in strange clothing, flashy and bright and _too much._

He looks out at a New York he doesn’t recognize and he’s almost numb with the distinct sense of loss that crashes down over him.

“You’ve been asleep, Cap.” 

His shoulders lower a little, the fight bleeding out of him. He picks up on every sound, on every color splashed across every billboard and every perturbed look shot his way. His brain is on overdrive, trying to process the tangled knot of feelings in his gut and this flashy version of New York that sprawls around him. He sways a little, listless, and brings a hand to his head, feeling unbelievably like the smallest speck in an unfamiliar world. 

What seems like just days ago, Steve had a clear-cut objective; take Hydra down at all costs. Right now, he feels completely and utterly lost, and entirely unsure of how to even begin navigating that. There was always something, _always_ , that he could cast his mind toward, that he could use as a tool to distract himself from his own mind, from the nightmares he screamed his way through at night, from the grief of losing his best friend. 

He follows the man before him, feeling inexplicably detached from his body; it isn’t a foreign feeling by any means, but this time he almost feels like he’s watching himself walk toward the alarmingly sleek building before him, material and design like nothing Steve’s ever seen before. The tiles spanning the lobby are spotless, reflecting the silhouettes of people that pass by him, shadowy figures that no one seems to pay much mind. He catches sight of a pamphlet about Littles, about working at this place — SHIELD — as a Little, and he can’t help the way his eyes widen. He can only assume this is a government agency of some kind, and the pamphlets just sit there on a desk, entirely out in the open. Steve doesn’t generally struggle with migraines, but he swears he feels one coming on, pounding somewhere behind his eyes. 

Steve is led to a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and an obviously fake potted plant in the corner, chairs colored a bright red, rounded at the edges and almost paper-thin, which doesn’t look particularly practical. In this future, the lights are colder, pale and blue-tinged, the colors are brighter, splashes against a canvas of white-grey, and it grates at just about every one of his senses. 

There’s a nebulous feeling floating around the back of his mind somewhere, one that he’s learned to associate with feeling small, and fear wells up inside him, unbidden. The only times he can think of where he’s lost his carefully-maintained control over it is in particularly fraught moments, and this certainly fits the bill. A sudden urge to curl up hits him, curl up with something soft, and he grits through it, consciously unclenching his fists and relaxing into the chair he’s taken. 

Several people in uniform enter, all calculating and clinical, assessing him, scrutinizing him. He almost can’t hear what’s being asked of him through the blood pumping in his ears, the cold feeling descending down over his shoulders, a gradual chill that makes him want to panic and find someplace warmer, someplace that isn’t so shiny and reflective. 

“Mr.Rogers, we’re aware that the serum ensures your physical health, but we still feel it’s important to run a few tests if possible, once you’ve been briefed on your current situation.”

God. _Briefed?_ Just how long has he been in the ice?

Steve wraps his arms around himself before he can help it, before he can beat back the urge with a stick. The voices surrounding him fade, until they’re nothing more than a gentle hum, and he feels like he can _breathe_ again. He catches a glimpse of himself in the window, of the way he’s visibly softened around the edges, eyes wide and shiny, but he can’t bring himself to care when there are people in unfamiliar uniforms surrounding him, telling him that they want to perform _tests_ like he’s some lab experiment. 

He feels horribly, achingly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so anyways i'm still very sad abt steve being thrust into a new world so suddenly and i WISH i could hug him even though its been like 9 years since catfa


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo i maybe got a bit carried away with this chapter,,, i did consider splitting it in half over two chapters but i do want to stick with the alternating POV's so this will probably just be a bit of a longer one.
> 
> anyways i'm sort of nervous abt posting this for some reason ?? so i'm probably going to go hide now, but i hope u enjoy the chapter !!! 
> 
> tw: discussions of alcoholism (recovery, mostly.) if you think there should be any other trigger warnings let me know <3

“Mr Stark! A few questions for the bulletin, please?” 

Tony dials up his grin a notch, loosening his tie as he approaches.

“Well how can I say no when you ask so nicely?” 

The brunette’s smile warms, and she gestures her cameraman forth. There’s still a dizzying amount of camera flashing coming from the red carpet outside, exposed whenever someone enters through the grand, engraved doors. 

“I see you haven’t got a drink in your hand,” she says.

Tony laughs, just the slightest bit taken aback. “You know, it _really_ kills me that you’re the only person who’s noticed that. I’ve been alcohol-free for about—“ he pauses here, pulling his phone from his pocket, “well would you look at that, nearly a month. That’s gotta be at least one sobriety chip.” 

“And is this a permanent change for you?” 

“Well, until somebody sends me a good bottle of wine, yeah.” 

She smiles, and shifts her line of questioning, “can you tell us a bit about this charity that Stark Industries is supporting today?”

“Sure. Uh—it’s called Little Reach, it’s centered around providing homeless Littles with the support they need to get access to accommodating jobs, depending on the age of their headspace, and it gives them shelter and food while they need it, as well as care. They’ve been working closely with the Maria Stark Foundation for about 15 years now, so we thought, hey, why not celebrate?” 

“And do you think your classification contributes to your passion for this particular charity?” 

Tony’s smile tightens a little, hands coming up almost absently to fiddle with his tie. “I don’t think it’s a matter of my classification so much as it’s a matter of, you know, seeing a group of disenfranchised people who, historically, haven’t been treated very well in this country. A good amount of the charities that the Maria Stark Foundation supports revolve around uplifting people that our system tends to neglect. Which, if you have the means, I think is a no-brainer.” 

The brunette hums. “And do you have anything to say to the rumors that you’ve found yourself a Little?” 

Tony eases up a bit, smile morphing into something more genuine. “Those rumors are, as always, just rumors. With my day job, I can’t see anyone relying on me for consistency. Villains never sleep, or so I’m told.” 

“Speaking of your day job, any thoughts on Justin Hammer’s recent sentencing?” 

He directs his gaze toward the camera, a smirk settling on his lips. “Justin, buddy, if you’re watching this, I really really _really_ hope you enjoy the prison cell. And no, I won’t be sending you a get out of jail free card.” 

“Thank you very much for your time tonight, Mr.Stark.” 

Tony offers the camera one last smile and wave as it moves on, drifting back toward the entryway. He blinks a bit, dazed by the flashing once again, before weaving his way back through the crowds, towards the bar. 

It’s a clear but chilly October night outside, and the cold seeps into the venue through the cracks in the windows and the entrance doors, which frequently open and shut with all the bustle. Lively chatter fills the air as business executives, charity organizers, local dignitaries and socialites all gather in small groups, flitting about the room every now and again to mingle with one another. Alcohol is flowing, with the open bar and the waiters that drift about the room, flutes of champagne balanced on gleaming trays. 

He takes a hard left when he notices the waiter that seems particularly hellbent on striking up a conversation with him, which is _fine_ , really, but having alcohol so tantalizingly close is enough to drive him crazy with irrational need. Another hard left when he sees the mother that seems unfathomably eager to keep introducing him to her Little daughter, who has a grimace almost permanently etched into her features that lets Tony know she doesn’t particularly like the treatment. He can sympathize with that. He was always a shy kid before Howard started toting him about at stuffy events like these. And _oh look_ , there’s— _okay_ , maybe the amount of people he’s trying to strategically avoid is getting a little alarming now. Where’s Pepper when you need her? 

It takes some creative maneuvering, but he finally manages to reach the bar without getting waylaid. He loosens his tie some more, feeling unusually depleted after only an hour or so of mingling. It’s a nice venue — the bar before him is done up in sleek marble, rich mahogany wood with charcoal undertones, but he’s feeling a very specific mix of overheated and cold, cheeks undoubtedly rosy with it. A distinct feeling of unwellness churns in his gut, not enough to be nausea-inducing, but enough to be _noticeable_ , to linger stubbornly at the back of his mind.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but lately, there’s an ache in his limbs that seems to run bone-deep, right down to the marrow, setting up shop right there and refusing to let up no matter how much rest Tony gets. His mental faculties are all well and good, but his emotions seem to take spontaneous roller coasters, his mood plummeting within about two seconds for no discernible reason, before surging right back up again, as described by a mildly-disturbed Rhodey. Vaguely, he thinks it’s probably worth talking to a doctor about, but it isn’t interfering with any of his work so far, and it _could_ potentially be chalked up to going fully sober, cold turkey. Withdrawals. That’s probably all it is. Nevermind the fact that he let up on the alcohol almost a month ago. 

He feels a tap on his shoulder and he tenses almost immediately, shoulders drawing upwards, but when he finds Pepper standing before him that tension leaves his body again in one great big rush. 

“How are you holding up?” she asks, as she takes the barstool beside him, effortlessly put-together despite the event already being well under-way. He really doesn’t understand how she does it sometimes. 

“Is that code for ‘are you having any extreme, sudden urges to go to town on every alcoholic beverage in your general vicinity?’ because if so, I am...well, not _holding up_ per se, but…” 

She lets out a sigh, smile softening as she covers his hand with her own. “It’ll get easier. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of the way you handled that overenthusiastic mother before.”

Tony laughs as he sits down, covering her hand with his other hand. “Oh, you saw that? Yeah, that was something. Really thought she was gonna pull out the adoption papers right then and there.”

Pepper hums, deceptively innocent. “It’s almost like she thought you’d be a decent caregiver or something.”

“Yeah. Crazy, right?” 

She shoots him a sharp look. Tony grins.

“Oh, are we doing this again?”

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” she says mildly, as she fiddles with the bracelet around her wrist, a habit that Tony has to come to recognize means that she’s either agitated, worried, or both. 

“Pepper, Pep, sweetheart, darling, platonic-love-of-my-life, Howard was very thorough in conditioning the caregiver out of me. I can’t even look after a _plant_. Do you remember that cactus I let die?” 

“I’m pretty sure DUM-E poured motor oil into its pot, but go on.” 

“The idea of messing a Little up? Nightmare fuel. Would rather _die_. This? Supporting Littles from a distance? Safe for both me _and_ them.” 

“You’re talking like anyone you go near will be permanently changed for the worse or something.”

“Exactly! Thank you for summing it up so nicely.”

She arches an eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous. Me? Rhodey?”

“Shining examples of people who are strong enough to withstand the psychological pressure of being associated with me in any way.” 

A smile twitches on Pepper’s face. “You’re _ridiculous_ ,” she reiterates, “your life may have its... _dramas_ , that isn’t for everyone, sure, but why do you think I stay?”

“Because I’m easy on the eyes? A pretty face you just can’t replace?”

“ _Because_ despite all of that drama, you’re worth it. I think you need to give people more credit; if they want to associate with you, that’s their choice. You can hardly make it for them.” 

“Where are these wise words coming from tonight, Ms.Potts?”

“I’m not sure if you’ll like the truth.”

“But you’ll give it to me anyway, right?” 

She straightens a little, glancing about at the surrounding clusters of people, before letting out another sigh and leaning in, fingers tightening around Tony’s hand. They’ve done this song and dance before; Pepper telling him that if he really put his mind to it, he could be good for a Little, and Tony vehemently disagreeing with the very notion of it, but Tony can’t much recall the presence of _this_ specific twist to Pepper’s mouth—her concern tends to be belied by amusement, usually at Tony’s antics. Right now, she looks genuine. 

“I’m worried about you. You’re repressing your instincts and I can see it’s starting to weigh on you.” 

Tony frowns. “I’m fine. What isn’t giving you the impression that I’m fine?”

“The shaking hands?”

“Leftover withdrawal symptom.” 

“The fatigue?”

“Haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.” 

“Almost collapsing at a meeting? Doting on your bots? _Giving DUM-E a pacifier?_ ”

“Hey, it soothes him,” Tony defends. 

“Tony. _He’s a robot._ ” 

“Okay, alright, maybe I haven’t been _all there_ lately. But it’s totally fine, I’m dealing with it. Stuff like this comes and goes. Just gotta wait it out.” 

Pepper sighs again, bringing a hand up to rub at her temple. “It’s gonna catch up to you.”

“I like my chances.” 

“I like your chances too. Of being rushed to hospital.” 

“Ouch. Words hurt, Ms.Potts.”

“Maybe they’re supposed to, Mr.Stark.”

She smiles, and the relief that floods Tony at the sight has him smiling in kind, bringing her hand up to place a brief kiss on it. “I’ll work on it.”

“I sure hope so. Running SI with a new head of R&D sounds like a nightmare.” 

“You can just say that you’d miss my pretty face. It’s okay.”

Pepper stands, drawing a hand through her perfectly curled hair, and offers him a kiss on the cheek. “I’d miss your pretty face,” she confirms, an indulgent smile tugging at her lips.

“I knew it.” 

He watches as her bright red dress disappears into the bustling crowds until he physically can’t see her anymore, turning back toward the bar with a sigh. This would normally be the part where he orders a martini or a pick-me-up of some kind. He contemplates asking for a glass of water when he feels his phone start to buzz in his pocket. 

_Unknown caller ID._

Tony snorts and declines the call. If it’s _majorly_ important they’ll call back. 

And they do. Once, twice, three times, until Tony gets up with a huff and paces over toward the edge of the room, by one of the grand white pillars, and presses a hand to his opposite ear. 

“Stark. Been having fun ignoring my calls?”

He barely smothers an agonized groan. “I would ask how SHIELD managed to get my private number, but then I remembered ‘oh wait, they sent a spy to watch over me a few months ago and they probably know the brand of conditioner I buy or the way I like to lay my clothes out in the morning.’” 

“We have an emergency,” says Fury, without preamble, and without acknowledging Tony’s mild jab, which is _something_. 

“That’s probably the most direct phrase I’ve ever heard from you. I appreciate the heads-up, of course, but what does an emergency have to do with me?”

“I can’t give out any details over the phone, but we need you over at SHIELD headquarters ASAP.”

“I’m sorry, what was that? I must’ve missed what you said, while I was thinking about that lovely evaluation SHIELD gave me. What was it again? Something like, oh I don’t know, Tony Stark: not recommended? Volatile? Self-obsessed?”

“This isn’t about character profiles, Stark, we’ve got a situation here. It’s delicate.” 

“ _Delicate?_ Then why ever did you call me?”

“Because I know you can keep your mouth shut.”

“Under the right circumstances, yeah,” he says mildly, as he glances about at the room, “look, I got a thing going on over here, I’m about halfway through a Charity gala and it’s not gonna be a good look for me if I just decide to blow this popsicle stand.”

“A _good look_ for you? You’re kidding, right?”

“Oh _come on_ , we’re donating to a charity that works with homeless Littles. Why should I do anything for SHIELD, anyway?”

“It’s not for us.”

“Well that’s cryptic as all hell. Who’s it for, then? A crime syndicate? Taylor Swift? The president?”

“I can brief you on the details, if you’d just _get your damn ass over here._ ” 

Tony doesn’t even try to suppress his groan this time. “Okay, alright. Gimme like, ten minutes.”

“Five,” says Fury, before hanging up, and Tony not so gently bangs his head against the pillar, intricate engravings and all.

Sure, he consults for SHIELD sometimes, helps them out with maintenance projects and defensive combat gear, but this seems just a shade above _consulting_. Plus, he does really like the charity they’re celebrating here, and Galas are something he generally doesn’t leave early unless he’s like, dying or something. 

It takes a bit of standing up on his tip-toes, scanning over the crowds, but he manages to catch a glimpse of Pepper’s red hair, reflecting the warm light of the chandelier above her. He hones in on it immediately and makes his way over, avoiding elbows and enthusiastically gesturing hands with practiced ease.

“Pep, remember when my throat was dry on the red carpet earlier and I had that spontaneous coughing fit? Can you tell people I’m coming down with a fever or something, and that I’m incredibly sorry for my untimely departure?”

She gives him a scrutinizing once-over, eyebrows furrowing a little. “...Why?” she asks, but there’s already a note of resignation in that tone, and it makes Tony want to wince. She really is a saint. 

“SHIELD has an emergency, apparently, and I am _absolutely required_ to be there, or Fury will probably send some men in tac gear for me.” 

Pepper lets out a long-suffering sigh. “For someone not recommended, they sure do like to call on you,” she says, and it’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, but it has Tony smiling anyway.

“My point exactly!” 

“I’ll tell them,” she relents, “just text me, alright? I don’t wanna see Iron Man fighting off an alien invasion on the news without a bit of forewarning.” 

Tony nods solemnly. “You will absolutely get forewarning if I have to fight off an alien invasion.” 

“Good. Will that be all, Mr.Stark?”

He grins, and blows a kiss her way as he takes a few steps backward, “that will be all, Ms.Potts.” 

Tony looks steadfastly forward as he crosses the red carpet, tuning out the flashing cameras and the screams of his name. The air is frigid, creeping its way beneath his silk shirt and wicking away any remaining body heat he may have had. He grits his teeth against it, closing in on Happy’s car and practically throwing the back door open. Happy only looks vaguely surprised to see him, watching in the rearview mirror as Tony settles in and buckles himself up.

“Where to, Boss?”

“SHIELD headquarters, Hap.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask questions, just starts the engine and pulls out onto the clustered road. 

Tony glances down at his hands, and _man_ , they really are shaking, aren’t they? It’s subtle, sure, but with the work he does in his lab that requires knife-sharp precision, particularly with delicate circuit boards and wiring, it could mean the difference between success and failure. It only really starts up when he’s particularly run-down, but the problem is that he’s been feeling like that an awful lot lately. His carefully repressed instincts have started to spill out all over the place without his conscious input, to the point of wrapping blankets around his bots while he works, because apparently his brain has decided that _hey, this is the closest thing we’re gonna get to a Little, why not?_

He knows, too, that ever since becoming Iron Man he’s been spending far more time holed up in his workshop, far more time away from people. Before, his instincts would surface in more subtle ways, particularly with all of his one nightstands, and it was _enough_. It’s rare for a caregiver to feel the physical ramifications of suppressing their instincts when they’re regularly interacting with other people. Even if they don’t have a Little, they can usually get what they need from their friendships or their relationships. The fact that he’s currently experiencing physical symptoms might be an indication that okay, _yeah_ , maybe he’s taking this all a little too far. 

He shakes his head to clear away _that_ particular train of thought, pulling his phone out from his pocket and searching for his name on Google, just to get an idea of what the latest wave of gossip might be. 

_TONY STARK LYING ABOUT HIS CAREGIVER CLASSIFICATION?_

Standard. Nothing to write home about there. 

_TONY STARK PREPARING TO TAKE ON A LITTLE?_

_Jesus Christ._ Somehow, he should’ve realized how giving up alcohol might look to some of the more reactionary outlets. Really, he wouldn’t be giving it up at all, but after reaching what might’ve been his lowest possible point just over a month ago, where drinking himself into oblivion had officially become more than just an occasional misadventure, to the point of interfering with his role as Iron Man, he knew something had to give.

Did a tiny, dark corner of his brain think that perhaps this would make him a more responsible caregiver in future, better suited to caring for a Little? Yes. Was that a good part of the reason he stopped? Well...no, _no_ , definitely no, because he definitely doesn’t need to indulge the deep-seated instincts that like to weave their way into his thoughts without permission, absolutely not. 

_Has JARVIS been getting enough sleep lately?_

_No, no he has not been getting enough sleep lately, because he doesn’t sleep, because he’s an AI. Remember that, Tony?_

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning dramatically when Happy informs him that they’ve arrived. He shakes out his limbs as best he can, pocketing his phone and steeling himself for whatever emergency could possibly be awaiting him. 

The building has an almost creepy quality to it, abandoned save for a receptionist who’s scrolling through her phone. The street lights outside are the only thing illuminating the darkened space, bathing the lobby only partly in a fluorescent glow. Tony didn’t even realize how late it’d gotten. 

The clicking of his loafers against the tiled floor echoes a little as he makes his way toward the elevator, pressing the button for the floor that he’s fairly certain Fury’s office is on. It lights up a pale blue, and he idly contemplates fixing the collar of his shirt before deciding against it. 

Fury’s office is about as sleek and polished as you’d expect it to be. Fairly innocent-looking, but Tony knows that it has to have at least a few defenses built into it. He knocks twice before entering, and for a moment he swears he sees relief flash across the man’s face, features smoothing out with it just for a moment before pinching once more. 

“Mr.Stark.” 

“Should I spare you the ‘I am not glad whatsoever that I am here’ spiel?”

Fury just arches an eyebrow, watching closely as Tony takes the seat opposite him. He should feel unsettled, but at this point in his life, he’s used to being watched with the intensity of about a thousand suns. 

“So where are all the agents? Doesn’t look like there’s an emergency going on to me.” 

“I’m going to assume that you’re aware of Captain America’s plummet into the Arctic just shy of 70 years ago?”

Tony blinks at the non sequitur. “Yes. I am aware. Would you like the exact date and time too? Is this a pop quiz?” 

Fury sighs, bringing his hands together on the table. “You’re really gonna have to keep your mouth shut about this, Stark. Not a word, not even to your friends.”

He hesitates, because he _does_ have a tendency of blurting absolutely everything to Pepper and Rhodey when it comes to situations like these, but then he nods, because hey, he also _did_ sort hide the fact that he was dying from heavy metal poisoning a few months ago. That’s gotta count for something.

“I can do that.” 

“Alright, I’m gonna keep this as brief as possible. Some researchers in the Arctic Circle uncovered the wreckage of a wing-shaped aircraft just a few days ago. Upon closer examination, they found Captain America’s shield inside. Then the man himself. Currently, he’s SHIELD’s responsibility,” he says, in a way that leaves Tony confused as to whether he’s thrilled or agitated by that fact. 

“ _SHIELD’s_ —Wait, _wait_ , rewind, rewind. You’re telling me that Steve Rogers is _alive?_ ”

“We think the serum had something to do with it,” he confirms, as he slides what appears to be an incomplete file in his direction, with an image of Rogers, alongside a report typed up in tiny letters by the researchers that uncovered him.

Tony’s eyes skim the text, taking in the gist of it. “Holy shit. Do you _know_ how many Daddy issues just resurfaced for me?”

Fury levels him with a flat look. “I’m sure you’ll be able to put those aside for the moment, Stark.”

“What? Why are you talking like I’m gonna meet him? Is _that_ the emergency? Because I gotta tell you, if that’s it, then I might just get going, they have these _really_ nice potato salad cups at the Gala and I feel like I’m missing out just by being here.” 

Fury looks almost _hesitant_ now, which feels very distinctly _wrong_. “He never registered his classification with the government. There was a classification test performed in the earlier stages of Project Rebirth, but the tests back then weren’t always reliable. We think he might be a Little. We’re not sure of an age range yet, but we’re estimating it’s pretty young.”

Tony can feel his expression slackening a little with disbelief. “Uh. I feel like, maybe, you _shouldn't_ be telling me this, confidentiality 101, uh, rights to privacy, that sort of thing.” 

“That’s where the incident comes in. He’s refusing to speak to any SHIELD personnel, and we’ve been unsuccessful so far in trying to calm him down. Sedation isn’t an option, not with what we have on hand, and even then it'd probably only make things worse. As Howard’s son, you have a connection to his past, which might be the edge we need.” 

At this point, his heart feels like it’s pounding against his ribcage so fiercely he can hear the echo of it in his ears. He shakes his head, goes to stand up, mind racing with a flurry of panicked thoughts. 

“ _Me?_ Calm a Little down? I’d probably freak him out _more_. This is—the _worst_ idea you could’ve possibly had, and let me tell you, I know a thing or two about bad ideas—“

“Like it or not, Stark, you have instincts. You may not have much experience with a Little, but there’s always gonna be a part of you that knows what to do in a situation like this, no matter how much you try to claim otherwise.”

He lingers by the back of his chair, torn down the middle between wanting to flee the building and wanting to find Rogers immediately. The thought of a distressed Little has a sharp, almost _visceral_ discomfort settling in his gut, but his track record when it comes to Littles isn’t even bad, it’s just plain _nonexistent_.

There’s a very real chance he could just make things worse, that he could be the exact opposite of what Rogers needs right now, in his introduction to the future. It’s... _delicate_ , and sure, Tony can handle delicate soldering work, delicate lab work, but he has a habit of projecting himself as bigger, _brighter_ , than the people he meets, to immediately take control of any situation he’s in, to preemptively throw defenses up. He knows he can be grating, the exact opposite of soothing. 

“He’s crying his eyes out in there. The least you could do is pull your shit together and _try_.” 

A frisson of shock accompanies the realization that he really _does_ want to try, despite his constant efforts to smother the very instincts that are trying to tell him that. He _does_ want to help, if he can, even with the part of his brain that’s insisting this is the last thing he needs to be dealing with right now. 

Tony heaves a sigh. “I can’t believe you’re guilting me right now. God. _Alright_. Just—give me a second to go back to my car.”

Fury raises an eyebrow, expression shrewd as he regards him. Tony meets his gaze evenly.

“He’s probably had about twenty people walking in, wearing exactly what I’m wearing right now. I have spare clothes in the car, clothes that aren’t so... _professional_.”

A knowing smile ghosts across Fury’s face. “You have two minutes.” 

Tony hurries toward the elevator, slamming down on the button for the ground floor with an urgency that surprises even him. He’s never had a Little, but contrary to popular belief, he isn’t _actually_ a monster — the idea of a crying Little makes an innate part of him want to start showering comfort as soon as physically possible, makes warm sympathy twist in his chest, tighten in his throat. 

He reaches the car at a very brisk walk, rounding it and opening up the trunk. Cars race by him in a bright flash of headlights, and he’s pretty sure he's garnering a few strange looks, but he ignores all of that in favor of grabbing a worn novelty shirt with a halloween cat printed onto it and a pair of sweatpants. There’s a soft blanket there too, and a pillow, both of which he snatches up with a shrug before slamming the trunk door again. He clambers into the backseat and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hap, kids like blankets, right?” 

It really says something about Tony that Happy barely bats an eye.

“Generally, yeah. Why, trying to cheer up a kid?”

“Something like that,” he mumbles, as he shrugs off his button-up and pulls the novelty shirt over his head. The slacks go next, replaced by the sweatpants. It’s honestly somewhat of a relief after being in his stiff, tailored suit all day long. 

“Can you text Pepper and tell her that I might be here a bit, but that she shouldn't worry?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

He thanks god for Happy and his lack of questions as he exits the car and makes for the building again. Fury awaits him outside his office, and his expression takes on that same knowing edge when he notices the blanket and the pillow in Tony’s clutches.

“This way,” he says, and Tony follows him down the corridor without comment, stomach churning with a sudden bout of nerves. They turn a corner, and he notices a cluster of SHIELD agents standing by one particular door, which he can only assume is the one Rogers is in. They look shocked to see Tony, which, _okay fair,_ but it still has his hackles raising a bit as he approaches, pointedly ignoring every one of their questioning gazes. 

“Hey guys, mind giving us a little space? Not sure crowding around here is gonna do a whole lot.”

They comply immediately, and Fury shoots him one final warning look as he reaches for the door handle, like he’s _daring_ him to mess this up. Tony waits for him to walk back down the hall before taking a deep breath and pushing the door open, slowly, but not slow enough to be totally out of the ordinary. 

It’s a conference room just like the ones he sees on a regular basis, except this one is just a few shades darker, with the only light coming from the moonlight that pours inside. His eyebrows furrow a little, but there might be a reason why the previous visitors had left the light off, so he decides to leave it for now. 

His gaze lands on Rogers’ curled up form, wedged into a corner between the full-length window and the wall. He has his knees brought up to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his knees, and he peeks up at Tony with shiny blue eyes that are practically brimming with wariness. Tony tries to telegraph his movements as much as possible, approaching the table and setting the blanket and pillow down atop it. He doesn’t think pushing too much too soon will do anyone any favors. Rogers’ gaze follows him, but he hasn’t asked Tony to get out yet, which Tony hopes is a good sign. 

“Uh, I’m not with SHIELD, in case that wasn’t obvious to you already.” 

Rogers raises his head a little more, openly curious. The sight of the dried tear tracks on his face and the blotchy redness of his cheeks manages to tug at heartstrings Tony wasn’t even aware he had. 

“My name is Tony. Tony Stark,” he says, because it probably isn’t good to beat around the bush with this, right? 

“Howard?” Rogers asks, in a tiny voice that’s nowhere _near_ what Tony had seen on the Captain America reels countless times before. 

“Yeah,” he confirms, swallowing, “I’m his son.”

“Howard’s here?” he asks, and Tony doesn’t quite manage to smother the wince that twists across his face in time. Okay. Maybe bringing up Howard first hadn’t been the best idea.

“Uh, no. No, it’s just me here now, sorry bud.” 

Rogers visibly deflates, curling in on himself. Even if Howard _was_ here, Tony knows he wouldn’t take well to Steve’s classification, and the idea of that has protectiveness surging up inside his chest.

He moves a little closer, trying to keep his movements casual and readable. Sudden movements weren’t wise around superheroes in general, but he especially couldn’t see them working in his favor here. Steve’s next intake of breath hitches a little, and Tony feels a stab of panic, but he tries to keep his demeanor as calm as possible. 

“Long day, huh?” he asks, as he sits down in front of the window, a fair few feet away from Steve’s corner. 

Steve doesn’t reply, just continues to watch him through the opening that his folded arms provide, hitching breaths tapering off a little as he regards him. 

“Yeah, me too,” Tony says, “had a bunch of meetings, and I swear they went on longer than they usually do. I was watching the clock and everything, time was _definitely_ moving slower.” 

No response, so he continues, wondering vaguely what the hell he’s doing and whether Steve is on the verge of just telling him to get out or not.

“You know what made it good though? My friend Rhodey, he _loves_ cats, kittens, anything feline really, and sometimes he visits this cat shelter in Brooklyn because he knows the owner, and he just sits with some of the cats and pets them for a while. You can’t tell him I told you that though, because he’s sworn me to secrecy, something about keeping his reputation intact, but anyway. This morning before my first meeting I went with him and I got to meet the cats. They were, as predicted, _adorable_ , and coming from me, that’s saying something.

Then, later on, I snuck off to get a coffee and I _swear_ I saw one of the cats from the shelter just sitting there on the street, this nice calico one, so naturally I asked Happy to help me get the cat back to the shelter. Turns out, the cat just looked _exactly_ like one of the cats they already had, named Ginger, so now they have two nice calico cats. I was _really_ late for my meeting, though. I showed Pepper a photo of the cat Hap and I picked up and she told me she’ll only forgive me if Rhodey and I take her with us next time, so I guess there’s gonna be a fun outing to the shelter at some point.”

He honestly doesn’t register that he's gone on a bit of a tangent until he looks over to find that Steve is sitting upright, hands still wrapped around his knees, but his face uncovered now, half lit up by the moon.

Tony offers him a small smile. “Do you like cats by any chance?” 

There’s a pause, and he really thinks that Steve won’t outwardly respond, but then he gives a tiny nod, and Tony feels a triumphant warmth settle somewhere inside his chest. 

“Seen many around?” he asks, before he can stop himself, consider whether he’s pushing too much. Rhodey _does_ tell him he has a habit of speaking without thinking. 

“There…” Steve pauses, flushing a bit, “there was a black cat in our neighborhood. Some people thought it was bad luck, so they’d shoo it away, but Buck and I always gave it food. It had soft fur.” 

Tony carefully keeps his expression light, despite the sharp sympathy that twists inside him at the mention of Barnes. This kid is seriously going to break his heart, and he doesn’t really think he can be blamed in the slightest for it. He’s nowhere _near_ jaded enough to not feel anything at the sight before him.

Steve — _when had he become Steve and not Rogers_ — seems to be speaking in fluent sentences, so if SHIELD was right about the age of his headspace, he can only assume that the kid hasn’t even fully dropped yet, probably didn’t have a whole lot of experience dropping, which aligns with Tony’s cursory knowledge of the attitude towards Littles that existed back in the forties. Something to be fixed, if one had the means, or, according to a lot of people, something to be ‘indulged’ but only behind closed doors, an unfortunate necessity. Essentially, not the best messages to be internalizing. 

“That was very nice of you guys to feed it,” he says, after a pause that’s just a shade too lengthy, “the cats at the shelter had soft fur too. I’m sure they’d love to meet you,” he adds, without thinking. 

_Fuck._ _Maybe Rhodey is right._ _Where had that even come from?_

Steve, wonder of wonders, perks up a little and drops his arms from around his knees, a shy smile forming on his face. “Lots of ‘em?” he asks, voice no longer a murmur, and there’s an even softer edge to his expression now that makes Tony think he must be slipping further into his headspace.

“So many,” Tony agrees, because he’ll be damned if he goes back on his words now, when Steve’s demeanor is gradually starting to become more open, “they have a cat playground there and everything, and I know it’s good because Pep chose it to donate, and she’s like, secretly an interior designer or something. Honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she has a side hustle going that I don’t know about.”

Steve’s smile is so still so heartbreakingly small and shy that it makes Tony want to reach out and comfort him somehow, but he knows this is delicate, and that Steve may not welcome any sort of physical comfort, so he keeps his carefully maintained distance. 

“This floor must be getting pretty uncomfortable, kiddo,” he says, “or maybe I’m just old. Either way, what do you say we move to those seats up there?”

Tony can see the hesitation that’s written all over Steve’s face, the apprehension in his furrowed eyebrows, but after a few moments he stands, wobbling in a way that has Tony stepping forth to hover a hand by his arm. 

“Whoa there. Alright?”

He nods, and Tony reluctantly steps back and approaches the table, reaching over to grab the pillow and place it on one of the chairs, because _man_ do they look uncomfortable, and Steve has been sitting on the floor for what had to be a long while now. 

Steve sits down while Tony rounds the table, trying not to make it seem like he’s paying close attention to what Steve is doing. 

“Do you want the light on?” he asks.

Another meek nod. Tony wonders for a moment why no one else had turned it on, but he stows that thought away for now and flicks the switch, bathing the room in light. Steve’s shoulders lower a little, the tension visibly draining from his body, like it was exactly what he’d been waiting for. Tony takes the seat opposite him.

“Uh, I have it on good authority that kids like blankets,” he starts, wincing inwardly at how stilted it comes out. 

Steve peers up at him through his lashes, and he looks so goddamn _small_ and _vulnerable_ that Tony almost forgets the guy has a couple of inches on him. 

“So, I thought, hey, why not bring one?” 

He watches as Steve’s gaze flits down to the blanket, then back up to him, like he isn’t quite sure whether he’s supposed to take it. Tony nods, and tries to make his smile as encouraging as possible, which probably shouldn’t be as hard as it is. He’s a bit out of practice when it comes to smiles that aren’t for the press.

“You can take it,” he confirms, reigning his voice in a little, keeping it soft. 

Steve reaches out hesitantly, almost experimentally, and smooths a hand over the fabric. He smiles, a slight upturn of lips, and brings it in toward him, hugging it toward his chest. It only covers about half of his lap like that, and a part of Tony wants to bundle him up in it, an instinct that he _immediately_ tries to bury, but Steve seems content with the arrangement, so it must be okay, at least for now.

A few moments pass before he looks back at Tony, and suddenly his bottom lip is wobbling, and tears are welling up in his big blue eyes, and his breaths start to hitch a little, like a switch has somehow been flipped and he’s remembering the situation he’s in. Tony curses inwardly, turning everything he’s said over in his head to figure out what he’s done wrong.

“Oh shi—uh. I mean, what’s the matter, buddy?” he asks, feeling monumentally stupid, because heck, what _isn’t_ the matter at this point in Steve’s life?

He winces when the words just _kickstart_ Steve’s tears, which spill down his cheeks now, accompanied by quiet little whimpers that make Tony’s chest tighten with an almost desperate need to comfort. The problem being, of course, that he’s never been all that good with comfort. 

“Hey, can I come near you? Is that okay?” 

Steve’s grip tightens on the blanket, and he rubs his cheek against it in an obvious attempt to self-pacify, but he gives a small nod through his soul-crushing cries, which is about all Tony needs to stand up and make his way to Steve’s side of the table, crouching down on the ground beside his chair. 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s alright, hey, you know what used to make me feel better, even when I was older? When my mom would just offer me a hug, no questions asked. You don’t have to, of course, but—“ a soft ‘oof’ escapes him as he’s suddenly met with an armful of Steve, the blanket squished between them. He shifts back onto his haunches, careful not to jostle Steve, or the arms he has wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist, like he’s trying to disappear into the embrace through sheer force of will. Tony ponders when Steve had last been offered a hug, but that train of thought is just a little too depressing for him at the moment, so he focuses on running a hand through Steve’s hair, rubbing circles into his back with the other. 

He knows, he’s seen the WWII reels, he _knows_ that Captain America is tougher than nails, he knows that the man behind that mask must be just as tough, just as persistent, but he _still_ feels like he’s holding the most fragile bundle in his arms, someone who might just shatter to pieces if Tony doesn’t continue to hold him together, and it’s _terrifying_. Because he doesn’t think he can fix this, is still certain that anyone would be better suited to take care of Steve at this moment, to be hugging him at this moment, but he still wants to _try_ , and right now, Tony may just be the only person he has who can give this to him. Which, again, slightly fucking horrifying, and _really_ not how he thought he’d end up at 11 pm on a Thursday, but that just seems to be the state of Tony Stark’s life thus far. He crashes head-on into the things he tries to avoid. _Literally_ , in some cases. 

He thinks, at the very least, that this will only be a one-off. Steve will find someone more competent, someone who can really look after him, and they’ll both be better off. As _colleagues_ , potentially, if Fury’s involved at all, because there’s absolutely no way in hell he wouldn’t want to try and recruit Steve for the Avengers Initiative, and Tony’s still got his consulting thing going on.

Steve’s face is buried in his chest, and Tony can feel that his shirt is officially soaked through with tears, but he honestly couldn’t care less. He just continues to hold him, to rub a hand up and down his back, until Steve finally draws back, sobs subsided but breaths still hitching a little on every inhale. His face is streaked with fresh tear tracks, his eyes red-rimmed and his cheeks a blotchy crimson. Tony offers him a small smile and a hesitant pat on the shoulder.

“Yeah, this is all pretty rough, huh? Maybe, if you tell me about the biggest thing that’s worrying you right now, I could help.” 

Or, at least, he sure _hopes_ he can help. 

Steve clutches the blanket to his chest and sniffles, looking up at him through clumped eyelashes. “‘D-dey said-d tests,” he says, and Tony surmises that he must be well into his headspace now, if not fully into his headspace. Still, he isn’t nonverbal, which is the case for a lot of Littles with a baby headspace range. Two? Maybe three? He’s stressed, which might be skewing him towards a younger age.

“Who said tests?” he asks, as he shifts, crossing his legs. 

Steve seems to take that as a cue, settling down on the ground with his hands twisted up in the blanket. He shoots a furtive glance toward the door, and Tony gets the gist.

“Do you know what kind?” Tony asks. 

He gets a meek head-shake in response. 

“Well, I promise you right now kiddo that if they want to perform tests, they’ll tell you everything there is to know about them first, and they can’t do anything unless you’re okay with it. If they even _try_ , I’d be all over that faster than they can blink.”

This earns him a tiny smile. “Ask?”

Tony hesitates, just a little confused, before saying, “uh—yeah. Yeah, they’d have to ask, bud. They can’t do anything without asking.” 

That seems to be the right answer, because Steve nods. His eyelids are starting to droop a little, no doubt from the long, fraught day he’s had. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes, grip on the blanket slackening. 

Being this exhausted probably isn’t helping matters, Tony can’t help but think. 

“You’re looking pretty tired there, kid. Could probably do with some sleep. I think they probably have a bed set up for you by now.”

Steve’s eyes fill with panic, and he reaches out to pet clumsily at Tony’s knee. “S’ay?”

“Stay? _Me?_ ” he asks, voice pitched up with disbelief. He inwardly kicks himself when Steve deflates, retracting his hand as though he’s been burned. “No, wait, I’m sorry, I can stay. If you want me to stay, that is,” he says in a rush. 

Steve eyes him warily for a moment before nodding. He sniffles, and rubs his cheek against the blanket again, his thumb gravitating toward his mouth. Tony winces, wishing he had a pacifier or something on him at that moment, but doesn’t stop the kid’s attempt to self-sooth. That’d probably do more harm than good.

He stands and holds out a hand, which Steve goes to take with the hand that isn’t occupied, whining a little when the blanket falls to the ground. Tony smiles, not unkindly, and bends down to grab it, carefully draping it over Steve’s shoulders instead. Steve takes his hand again, clearly pleased, and the thumb of his other hand remains in his mouth.

“Alright, let’s get you to a bed,” he says, as he approaches the door, steps slow to ensure that Steve can keep up. The hall before them is lit but empty, no signs of the SHIELD agents from earlier. No signs of any person, really, but Tony starts forward anyway. He’s unable to stop himself from sneaking glances at Steve, who makes a _really_ cute picture right now that even _he_ can’t deny, with his wide blue eyes and the fuzzy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He only barely smothers a smile as they round the corner, approaching Fury’s office. 

Steve hides as much of himself as he can behind Tony, grip tightening a little on his hand as he lingers by the entryway, trying to make himself as small as possible. Fury keeps his gaze trained on Tony, clearly picking up on the shyness, but that same knowing smile lurks at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the scene before him, the one that Tony can’t help but narrow his eyes at.

“You guys got a bed set up somewhere around here?” 

Fury nods once. “On the ground floor. Come with me.” 

Steve sucks more adamantly on his thumb as they follow Fury toward the elevator, gaze flitting to Tony every few seconds like he’s scared that Tony might disappear at any moment. The fact that it’s not even a far-fetched concern for the kid makes something inside him ache a bit. He’s more than a little alarmed on the elevator to find that Steve is trembling, and his other hand comes up almost of its own accord, resting on his shoulder.

“Have I mentioned how brave you’re being right now?”

Steve blinks. “Bwave?” he asks softly, around his thumb, and Tony nods, resolutely ignoring the fact that Fury is in the elevator with them. 

“ _So_ brave, kid,” he confirms, “braver than like, Superman. And he’s brave.” 

_Was Superman even a thing back then? Does he know who Superman is?_

Then, Steve _giggles_ , and it’s soft, and it barely lasts a second, but Tony feels about as accomplished as he felt creating the mark III. He can’t keep his grin at bay this time, despite knowing it probably looks a little silly.

He feels oddly... _light_ , on their way to the medbay, where he supposes the only beds in this place are. It’s a bit of a depressing affair, having all of the machinery pushed up to one side of the room, and the drab hospital-style bed pushed up against the wall. Tony knows that Steve is SHIELD’s responsibility for the time being, but he feels an irrational urge to invite Steve back to the tower, just so that he doesn’t have to sleep in a damn medbay.

Fury lingers outside, which puzzles him just a little, until he sees what’s laid out on the bedsheets. There’s a pair of sweatpants and a plain white shirt similar to the one Steve currently has on, as well as a pale blue pull-up, patterned with yellow stars. He knows it’s a logical precaution, given the age of Steve’s headspace, but this is the sort of thing that really requires consent beforehand, preferably while a Little is in their big headspace. Tony thinks it over for a moment as he moves to close the door.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself, “uh, okay—here’s what we’re gonna do, kiddo, do you think you’ll be okay putting this on by yourself?” he asks, gesturing to the aforementioned pull-up, “or do you think you might need some help?” 

Steve takes the pull-up, studying it for a moment before looking at him with big, puzzled eyes. Right. They really only had diapers back in the day, so that’s probably fair. 

“It’s fine if you need my help,” he says quickly, “it’s just so that you don’t have any accidents while you’re sleeping.”

“Diaper?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” Tony agrees, “but you can step into this one, and you can pull it up and down.”

Steve looks down at the pull-up again, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Help?” he asks, so quietly that Tony has to strain to catch it. 

“Sure thing, bud,” he says, mostly relieved that Steve is accepting the pull-up in the first place. He gets the feeling that he wasn’t exactly using diapers back in the forties when he was in his little headspace. 

It’s a relatively quick process, and once Tony shows him how to step into the pull-up, he mostly just uses Tony for balance. They get him into the sweatpants and the shirt too, and when Steve hugs himself like he’s cold, Tony wraps the blanket around his shoulders again. Now, he’s all rugged up, blinks slowing with exhaustion, and _okay, come on,_ only a monster wouldn’t find that cute. He helps him up onto the bed, hands remaining by his side for support.

It’s a bit too cramped for him to sit at the end of it, especially with Steve’s not-insignificant build, so he shuts off the lights and settles down on the chair next to the bed. 

“Nigh’ Tony.”

His traitorous caregiver heart swells. “Sleep tight, kiddo.” 

It’s hard to feel anything but painstaking affection as he watches Steve’s eyes flutter, and his breaths even out, a peaceful expression stealing over his face. It’s dangerous, really, seeing as Steve isn’t his Little, and that he isn’t even looking for a Little, for very good reason. He doesn’t need to deal with all the feelings that this whole ordeal has stirred up inside him — the whole _reason_ he’s been suppressing his instincts as much as humanly possible is because if he indulges them like this he’ll start wanting to care for a Little so much that it _aches_ , and with the hazardous life he leads, as well as his general tendency to poison the people and the things he goes near, that’s just not feasible. 

Steve snuffles into the pillow in his sleep, and Tony has to turn away from the sight, before he does something drastic like start googling ‘how to be a good caregiver.’

Which he definitely hasn’t done before. Because that would be ridiculous, and Tony Stark doesn’t do ridiculous things. Ever. Absolutely not. 

Once he’s sure that Steve is fully asleep, he stands ever so carefully and exits the room, closing the door slowly to generate the least amount of noise possible. Fury awaits him in the lobby, which isn’t much of a surprise. 

“Not bad for someone who was having a freakout before he even went into the room.”

He snorts. “Yeah, just give me about two days' notice next time before you recruit me to talk down a Little. _Three_ , even, three’s good, I can do three.” 

“Tell you what, if they give _me_ three days notice next time we’re responsible for a frozen forties-era war hero who happens to be a Little, I’ll give _you_ three days notice.”

Tony nods in the general direction of Steve’s room. “By the way, _really_ hope you’re gonna give him a run down of any tests you plan to subject him to beforehand and let him say no if he wants, because I don’t like breaking my promises and I may or may not have to heroically intervene or something. Still haven’t figured that part out yet. You know I’d do it though.” 

“He’ll be briefed,” Fury confirms, “I’m personally only interested in a classification test. Can’t have Captain America as part of the Avengers Initiative if we don’t know how to accommodate him.”

“My guess for his age is two or three,” Tony offers, “not that I’m an expert or anything.”

“We’ll figure it out. You should get going, Stark.” 

Tony intends to bid him farewell, he really does, but then he blurts, “will he have someone watching over him? In the building, I mean? He’s not gonna be alone or anything crazy, right?”

Fury’s expression takes on an amused edge. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“That’s—you’re putting words in my mouth, I never said that,” he splutters, “making sure Captain America is safe is probably like, one of the ten commandments or something, ‘thou shalt not endanger Captain America’, I’m just upholding my sacred duty here.” 

“Right,” he agrees, with an indulgent smile, “we’ll have men looking out for him. He’ll be fine.” 

“All of them vetted?”

“Stark.”

“Sacred duty,” he insists.

“All of our agents have been vetted so hard the FBI would cry. I’m not going anywhere, either, not tonight. It’s _fine_.”

“Ok-ay, alright. I’ll see you...I don’t know when, but I’m hoping it's not soon.” 

“Get out of my sight,” he says, but there’s still an undercurrent of amusement there.

Tony obliges, and as he heads towards Happy’s car, he decidedly does _not_ think about the fact that his hands aren’t shaking anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little steve <3<3 
> 
> also hey remember when tony was on the brink of death from heavy metal poisoning in im2 and instead of telling his closest friends he slowly tried to distance himself from them so the pain of his death would be lessened as much as possible like ???? sir.  
> sometimes writing for the mcu makes me look at the movies and go 'huh.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belated merry christmas to those who celebrate! i very much enjoyed writing this chapter, so i hope you enjoy reading it <3
> 
> (no trigger warnings that i can think of)

Steve likes to think that he’s a relatively unapologetic person. Growing up during The Great Depression with the laundry list of health issues that he had prior to the serum almost demands that a person develops a thick skin, demands that they be ready to justify their existence at any given moment. Still, a pricklingly hot feeling of shame washes down his spine when he wakes the following morning and takes in his surroundings, heart slamming against his ribcage as memories of what exactly had occurred last night bombard him.

It’s only compounded by the realization that he’s wearing something like a diaper, and that he’d actually _used_ it while he slept, the evidence plain as day in the small patches of darkened fabric that stretch across the front of his sweatpants. So, he’d wet himself, like a _kid,_ and there had been leakage, which is about as uncomfortable and itchy as one would expect it to be. He takes a few deep, centering breaths, trying hard to ground himself against the flurry of thoughts that are whirling through his brain, before forcing himself into problem-solving mode. He couldn’t sit there forever, after all. 

A pair of denim jeans and a plain blue shirt sit almost innocently on the plastic chair beside the bed. _Where Stark had sat last night,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thought, and directs his gaze toward the — diaper? There has to be a name for it, because he may have been in the ice for a while, but his memories remain relatively unscrambled, and the diapers from his time couldn’t be pulled up and down. He feels a scowl twist across his face at the sight, and he knows it’s irrational, because all it’s doing is sitting there, but he still feels taunted, because he shouldn’t need that, _surely,_ and all it does is remind him of the new world he’s woken up in, the world that’s undoubtedly moved on without him. 

On top of the shirt lays an interesting-looking pair of underwear and, _okay yes,_ he can work with that. That’s doable. That doesn’t make him want to burn up with shame and guilt and a whole array of unpleasant feelings that he’ll shove down about a hundred times over before he even _tries_ to process them. 

There’s a small bathroom connected to his room at the very least, which he can lock upon entering. He’s glad that the fundamentals of a bathroom haven’t changed all that much during his time in the ice, even if _this_ bathroom looks particularly sleek and shiny and washed-out.

Years of being in the army have ingrained quick changes into him, so he rids himself of his shirt and his sweatpants in no time, cleaning up as best he can before tugging the new set of clothes on. There’s a diaper disposal bin, which seems odd for a regular bathroom, but he’s starting to get the idea that classifications have become just a bit more normalized over the past few — years? _Decades?_ It almost has some of the futile hopelessness lifting from his shoulders, knowing that maybe, just maybe, society has made a few strides for the better. 

A friendly-looking woman awaits him when he re-enters the room, holding a small plastic bag. 

“Hey there,” she says, voice dripping with an almost artificial sweetness, and Steve feels humiliation surge up inside his chest, hot and suffocating. 

He clears his throat, forces his lips up into a cordial smile. “Ma’am,” he greets, knuckles turning white with the grip he has on the sweatpants bunched up in his hands. He consciously relaxes it, but the woman’s gaze strays downward anyway, shock flickering over her features.

“Mr.Rogers,” she greets in kind, “sorry about that. I thought you might have woken up in your headspace. I’ll take that off your hands.” 

_Headspace? Is that what they’re calling it these days?_

Steve can feel his face reddening despite himself as she moves forward, offering up the plastic bag. He places the clothes inside, and tries to chase away the thoughts in his head that seem adamant on replaying the events of last night in his head, an endless, inescapable loop. He shoots a discrete glance toward the chair again, where Stark had sat just last night, and amongst all of the embarrassment, a sharp longing settles in his gut. He isn’t Howard, and maybe that should be off-putting, or another reminder of all the things he’s lost, but for some reason it _isn’t._ Because heck, at least Howard’s son is still _alive,_ at least Steve can look at him and think of all the things that have persisted, can see a link to his time. It isn’t fair to reduce anyone to a link, though, it’s not fair to look at someone and search for someone else in them, long for something that isn’t there, will never be there, and he isn’t, not really. 

After a slew of artificial, over-the-top sweetness, of cold, detached professionalism, of people explaining to him how he must be feeling, Stark had walked in wearing his shirt on backwards, sat down on the floor, and rambled about a cat shelter he and his friend had visited. Steve is sure he wasn’t even _aware_ his shirt was on backwards, no one must’ve corrected him, but it was the small, inexplicable thing that had Steve calming down from the get-go, had him hanging onto Stark’s words out of sheer curiosity. He didn’t feel judged, or that they weren’t on equal footing, or that Stark was being condescending toward him. In fact, he even looked _nervous,_ out of his depth despite hiding it well, but it shone through in ways that were hard to pinpoint, and it made Steve feel a whole lot better about the fact that _he_ was so hopelessly lost. _Still is_ hopelessly lost, really, and there’s no quick fix to that, there’s no shoving it down to deal with later, because the war is over and he has nothing else to focus his efforts on. 

“...Mr.Rogers?” 

He snaps his gaze away from the chair. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, “what was that?”

She smiles. “Director Fury would like a word with you, whenever you’re ready. We’ll have someone take you up to his office.” 

“Uh, I’m good to go now. If he is.” 

“Follow me, then,” she says. 

It’s the same route from last night, right down to the elevator that’s covered all over with mirrors. He flushes at the memory of standing here with Stark, sucking his thumb and trembling like a leaf, all while Fury stood in the opposite corner. It hits him almost like a pile of bricks, that Stark probably left to spare Steve the overwhelming embarrassment, to spare _himself_ the overwhelming embarrassment, of all the things he’d done. The crying, the hugging, the thumb-sucking. _God._ There’s every chance that Stark found it all unbearable, because who _wouldn’t_ it unbearable, who _wouldn’t_ want to leave as soon as possible. 

He feels his shoulders slump a little in defeat, and he knows it’s ridiculous, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind _once_ last night that Stark had helped him out of unfortunate obligation, had been silently judging him the entire time, waiting to book it the moment he wasn’t needed. It’s logical — of course SHIELD would bring someone in to help out if need be — but it still has humiliation bubbling over again, the fact that he’d been so vulnerable and emotional and cracked open at the seams for Stark to see, all because he’d mentioned a cat shelter he’d visited that day. 

He tries to forcibly shove that train of thought to the recesses of his mind, because if he dwells any longer on how Stark must view him, that fuzzy feeling might return with a vengeance and start fogging up his mind again. It’s just one person. One person who happens to be one of the only sure links to his time that he currently knows of. 

Fury’s office is sleek and reflective, all sharp, geometric shapes and dark colors, just as oppressive as the rest of this building, but it’s something Steve knows he’s going to have to get used to. Maybe he’ll even come to appreciate it one day. Today isn’t that day.

“Mr.Rogers,” he greets, as he stacks a precarious pile of manila folders. 

Steve smiles, embarrassingly thin and transparent, as he closes the door with a gentle thud and takes the seat opposite him. “Sir. About last—“

“Did something happen last night, Mr.Rogers?” he asks, deceptively casual, “because I don’t remember a thing.” 

His smile takes on a grateful edge. “You wanted a word with me?” 

“I did,” Fury confirms, “I’ll try to keep things as brief as possible, because I’m a busy man and you have a lot to catch up on. A lot of things have changed, Cap, but the Government still keeps a registry of everyone’s classifications. You have every right to refuse a classification test from us, but if it’s not us, it’s probably going to be the Government on your back.”

Steve’s jaw clenches without his conscious input. “How will that look for me in terms of jobs?” 

“If an employer is caught discriminating against a particular classification during the hiring process, there’s a good chance they’d get sued or fined to hell and back. You’re not obligated to disclose your classification when applying for a job, but if your employer does know, they’re legally required to provide accommodations. Depending on your headspace age, that could range from regular breaks, shorter working hours, to the provision of Caregivers.” 

Something like hope sows itself in Steve’s chest, blossoming the more Fury talks. Maybe he’ll be able to get by in this world without constantly fearing he’ll be found out, even if it isn’t his own. 

“And SHIELD?” he asks.

“We have zero tolerance discrimination policies. Confidentiality is a big thing these days, Captain. Your classification won’t leave SHIELD, not if you don’t want it to.” 

“Alright. And why do I get the feeling this is building up to something?” Steve asks, leaning back in his chair.

Fury arches an eyebrow. He brings his hands together, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “SHIELD is forming an initiative. The Avengers Initiative.”

He slides a file across the desk, stamped with the word ‘CONFIDENTIAL’, and continues to speak while Steve flicks to the first page, eyes scanning the fine print. 

“Its aim is to bring together an extraordinary group of people, see if they can become something bigger than the sum of their parts. You may have taken down Hydra, but the world is changing. Fast. We’re facing threats that seem to get crazier and crazier by the minute, threats that we, or any ordinary people, could never hope to face.” 

Steve wants to interject, to say that he’s nothing special, he’s just a boy from Brooklyn who hated bullies almost as much as he hated violence, and somehow ended up in the 21st century because of it, but he keeps his mouth shut, swallowing once, twice, three times as he reads. 

The war may be over, but if he could throw himself into protecting people once more, if he could give himself something to work towards each day, something that could give him the clarity of mind he needs to push back against the tidal wave of emotions that want to bubble their way to the surface, the echoing emptiness in his chest and the horrible loneliness that feels as though it’ll never quite let up…

He may not believe that he’ll ever find a place in this future, but he _does_ believe in _people_ , and he does believe in protecting people at whatever the cost. 

“And you want me to be a part of this?” he clarifies. 

“Every team needs a leader.” 

“What’s the catch?” 

“You’d be employed by SHIELD. SHIELD doesn’t make Caregivers mandatory for Little employees, regardless of their headspace age, but it’s strongly recommended. There are certain protocols in place to protect Littles, including but not limited to regular drops, regular contact with a caregiver, headspace checks, health checks. The moment a Little’s headspace kicks in it could interfere with their decision-making, so they’re expected to take a break when required.” 

“I don’t need that,” Steve says, almost on autopilot.

“We often get that from Littles who have suppressed headspace for a long time. Like I said, those are the rules. They’re in place because we want to keep not only our employees safe but civilians safe. I’m sure you can appreciate that, Captain.” 

Steve hesitates, because he _can_ appreciate that, he’d hate to put a civilian in harm’s way because he couldn’t control his... _headspace_ , he supposes, if that’s what people are calling it nowadays. It’s something he’d fretted over a number of times during the war — losing focus, losing clarity, which is why he was so religious in ensuring that he suppressed his urges to be small until he physically couldn’t anymore, and only then would he find a totally secluded, totally safe place to curl up for a few hours, often guarded by Bucky. The more he shoved it down, the easier it got to shake off for lengthy periods of time. The lack of physical ramifications only made it easier. 

“However,” says Fury, clearing sensing Steve’s apprehension, “because you’d have more an... _affiliation_ with SHIELD, as a potential member of the Initiative but not an actual SHIELD agent, I suppose certain leniencies could be made.” 

Steve nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll agree to a classification test, but I don’t need SHIELD to provide me with a Caregiver.” 

Fury looks pleased, or at least _his_ version of pleased, which involves a faint upturn of lips. “I’m glad we can come to an agreement. However, given your estimated headspace age range, I do have to recommend looking into a Caregiver. I know the idea may seem off-putting—“

“I’m fine,” Steve says, more forcefully than intended, “I can handle myself.” 

“I don’t doubt that for a second, Captain, but I know plenty of competent Littles who have Caregivers while they’re in headspace. There’s no shame in it.” 

Steve thinks of the cold professionalism, the overly-done niceties, the sickly sweet tones and coos. He shudders. The thought of someone he barely knows seeing him so vulnerable, being able to tell him what to do, when he’s so impressionable and amenable, it has nausea churning in his gut. Briefly, his thoughts flash to Tony, to the casual way he’d spoken to Steve, to the genuine smiles, kind and goofy but nowhere near artificial or condescending. His chest aches for a reason he doesn’t quite want to unravel. 

“I don’t like the idea of a SHIELD-assigned Caregiver,” he says, “or some Government worker. I’m sorry, but I can’t agree to that.” 

Fury nods. “Alright. I’m going to give you the number of a Caregiver I trust, which is saying a hell of a lot, and if you ever change your mind, if you ever need someone, he’ll be your guy. For the time being, I want to get a few administrative things out of the way, then we get you to someone who can administer a classification test.” 

“When will I know the results?” 

“You’ll get an approximation in about two hours, which’ll be backed up with more biologically-based testing within a day or two.”

_Biologically-based testing?_

He nods, like that makes total sense, and Fury continues on. From that point forth the more mundane things are discussed — where Steve will be staying, what resources he can access, his army back-pay, his driver’s license, his credit card. Littles couldn’t get driver’s licenses back in the day, so he supposes that’s another positive change, even if there are ‘certain restrictions’ on Littles’ licenses, in Fury’s words, due to their headspace potentially creeping up on them.

Fury gives him a few files to read over, some in relation to the Avengers Initiative, and some that he’s urged to read while he’s alone. A chill rushes down Steve’s spine at those words, like an ice bucket has been unceremoniously dumped over his head. He tries not to think too hard about what those files in particular contain, but it’s virtually impossible. 

Steve goes to stand when all is said and done, but Fury seems to remember something at the last second because he stops him. 

“Stark was here earlier this morning,” he says, tone flat, “he asked me to give this to you.”

Something inexplicable twists in his chest. He watches, curiosity piqued, as Fury pulls a brown paper bag out from under his desk and slides it over. He takes it hesitantly, peering inside. Disbelief has the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Inside lays a blanket, just like the one Stark had left there the previous night, just in a different color. On top of the blanket there’s a pamphlet for a cat shelter, with a note attached to it that reads:

_They know your name now! Just ask for Isaiah. Might even catch me there sometime._

_—TS_

He clears his throat. “Thank you, sir.” 

Fury arches an eyebrow. “I’ll see you around, Cap.” 

Steve leaves the office in somewhat of a daze, barely registering the curious gazes that follow him. There’s a confused mixture of feelings and emotions warring inside his head, sending his mind spinning.

Stark had visited in the morning. He’d left a blanket and a note. That doesn’t particularly seem like someone who was overly embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Maybe he just didn’t want to see Steve face-to-face again, knowing what he is? Maybe this was something he felt he _should_ do, out of pity? 

He sends a furtive glance down toward the bag, so innocent-looking compared to the secret that’s hidden within it. He can feel a flush rising on his cheeks despite himself, out of humiliation or frustration, he’s honestly not sure. _Surely_ there shouldn’t be sharp longing twisting itself up inside his chest at the sight of a damn _blanket,_ _surely_ he should be balking at the idea of someone giving him something out of misguided pity. 

Not a whole lot can tire him out, not since the serum, but all of this confusion is exhausting. He wants nothing more than to find a punching bag, find a mission, find something that’s straight-forward and easier to deal with than the thoughts in his head. He definitely _doesn’t_ want to find someplace soft, someplace he can settle with the blanket, because he isn’t feeling small, and he shouldn’t be longing after things like that.

A car awaits him outside SHIELD headquarters, just like Fury said there would be. He climbs inside, looks out at the New York he still doesn’t recognize, and tries not to feel too lonely. 

~ 

“Hello, this is Steve Rogers speaking.” 

“Mr.Rogers. This is Phil Coulson from SHIELD. I trust Director Fury informed you that I might be calling.” 

Steve hesitates, because he’d kind of, sort of forgotten that Fury had given his details to that Caregiver he supposedly trusted. He clears his throat. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think he mentioned something like that.” 

There’s a pause, and Steve holds the landline away from his ear for a moment, thinking maybe it cut off somehow. He hears Coulson speak, so he brings it to his ear again.

“—orry, I just think I should say, it’s an honor, Mr.Rogers, really.”

Steve shifts, runs his hand along the back of his neck. “Uh. Thanks.” He winces inwardly at how clipped it comes out, but he’s never been all that great at handling people’s admiration. 

Coulson slips back into professionalism once more, clearly sensing his discomfort. “Director Fury wanted to give you a call, but he’s a little caught up at the moment, so he asked me to check in. You should’ve received your test results today, if all went to plan.”

“I did,” Steve confirms, glad to have an answer for something, “I’ve actually got them right in front of me.” 

“Great! Have you read through them at all? Anything jumping out at you that you don’t quite understand?”

“Some of the terminology is a bit new,” Steve admits, “but I think I got the gist.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” He pauses. “Between one and three years puts you in one of the younger age brackets, but I’m sure you’ve read that your headspace age can stray either younger or older depending on the circumstances of your drop, and quite a few other factors, both internal and external.”

Steve nods, unable to tamp down on the embarrassment that he can feel burning on his face. Coulson is discussing this like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and it’s just the slightest bit jarring. His eyes skim the booklet in his hands, filled with information both about his test results and more general information about his ‘headspace’ range. Apparently, he tends toward two years, but that’s not particularly rigid. The whole concept of being able to figure out a Little’s exact age while they’re small is still honestly a little bizarre for him, as well as the list of equipment that’s apparently recommended for Littles with his headspace range. 

“Because of your age, SHIELD does very strongly advise the presence of a Caregiver during drops. Of course, I understand that you’ve expressed discomfort at the idea, but I just wanted to call and let you know that I’m here anytime you need, there’s no commitment — if you drop one time and you need someone there, or you just need someone who can talk you through something, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says honestly, “and I appreciate it a lot. Thank you for the call.” 

“Of course,” he says, “anytime, alright? I understand this is all pretty new. I won’t apply any needless pressure. But I’m here.” 

“Alright. Thanks again, really.” 

“I’ll see you around, Captain Rogers.” 

The line goes dead. Steve replaces the phone, looking out at the living space. There are numerous files laid out across his desk, sitting right where he left them when the phone started ringing. He sighs and returns to his seat.

A few days have passed since he was called back into SHIELD headquarters for a Classification test, but he’s only just now worked up the courage to read through the files Fury had given him. He’s in his old apartment, dust-speckled sunlight streaming in through the threadbare curtains. It was never five-star, but it was always homely, worn and loved, with tell-tale signs of life tucked away into every crevice, patched up blankets and jumpers, a radio that was on the fritz but still managed to tune them into the late-night radio shows, crackling with interference.

He thinks of Bucky, of sitting with him on the cramped two-seater couch and listening to the radio, playfully shoving each other around and discussing what a radio show would be like if _they_ were the hosts. Factory work was strenuous and tedious, Steve could see its toll in how haggard Bucky always looked when he returned home, in the stress and exhaustion that was written into the lines of his face. Late nights like those and weekends were often his only respite in the lead up to the war. 

He shakes his head to clear away the memories that are fogging up his brain, turning back to the files that are stacked up in front of him. The Howling Commandos are all gone, Howard is gone, Peggy is retired, but Steve can’t stomach the idea of visiting her at the moment, he wants to face her without breaking down. He knew everything he’d ever known would be gone, but seeing it confirmed on paper has the reality of it all crashing down over him like a tidal wave, an inescapable sadness tightening in his chest. The men he had fought with, the woman he loved, his future, _everything_.

He shifts, and the wooden chair he’s sitting on creaks ominously. Dusk is approaching, and the silence that blankets his apartment is starting to suffocate him. Cars race by on the street outside, but it all seems like white noise, contributing to the sharp ringing that fills his ears. Steve stands up, and the chair scrapes along the floor. He stands by the dingy window, shields his eyes against the red-tinged sunlight that filters in, and looks out at the streets, at the passers-by, to remind himself that he isn’t _really_ alone, no matter how much it feels like he is. A group of friends eventually drift by, stumbling into one another with their laughter, and Steve has to turn away. His old life isn’t coming back. The Howling Commandos aren’t coming back.

He returns to his chair once more, flicking on a lamp that floods his desk in warm light and setting those files aside, as though putting them out of sight will put them out of his mind. Only one file remains.

**_STARK, TONY_ **

_IDENTIFIABLE MARKINGS:_ _A miniaturized (RT) ARC reactor embedded in his chest cavity._

_FAMILY: Howard A. Stark, Father DECEASED 12-17-1991_

_Maria Collins Carbonell Stark, Mother DECEASED 12-17-1991_

Steve takes in a sharp breath. Dead on the same day. Surely an accident of some kind. 

Stark’s file is a relatively cursory affair; they all are, but still, a few details of his journey to creating the Iron Man suit are there, his assets as Iron Man are all outlined. He’s a consultant to SHIELD, but for some reason only Iron Man is listed as a potential member of the Avengers Initiative. The armor seems very...well, _high tech,_ a perfect culmination of all the technological advancements that Steve had missed during his time in the ice, sleek and streamlined and virtually indestructible. Flight capabilities. An impressive donning system. _Repulsor tech,_ which doesn’t mean a whole lot to him, but it sure does seem to mean a lot to SHIELD. Steve can’t help but feel overwhelmed and just the slightest bit put-off.

He can appreciate the strength it must’ve taken to make something like that while in captivity. Through the tabloids alone he’s managed to absorb at least some information as to the kind of life Stark led prior to becoming Iron Man. The parties, the women, the drinking, the trail of admirers and naysayers he left in his wake wherever he went. He’s starting to think that there are two versions of Tony Stark; the man who he met at SHIELD headquarters, who had told him he was as brave as Superman just to get a smile out of him, and the man who dazzles and impresses as easy as breathing, entertains crowds and puts up a facade of total indifference.

He hopes they’re different at the very least.

He’s met men with the things Stark has before, men who haven’t had anything to prove their whole lives, who walk into a room and think they should own it on the merit of the things they’ve been given. He looks at the note on his desk, thinks about Stark going to that cat shelter early in the morning and giving them Steve’s name, on the off chance that Steve ever really _did_ want to visit, and he wants to think he’s not like that.

Steve wouldn’t know. Not from the single encounter he’s had. 

Dwelling in his apartment for days on end seems counterproductive, so the following two weeks find him out and about, exploring this new version of New York, at least until he has something substantial to focus his efforts toward. A few of the more major streets are packed, _so_ packed that he witnesses a kid get lost in all the hustle and bustle, and garners a dirty look or two when he stops to help her find her parents again. 

Every little detail seems to assault his serum-enhanced senses; the flashing lights and the cacophony of sound, the conversation snippets he can hear despite trying hard not to, the music he can hear drifting in from each store, the cars he can hear coming from a mile away. He’s always struggled with feeling overloaded, his senses totally overwrought with input, but he’s usually able to push that to the side and soldier on. Right now, it’s far too overwhelming to ignore.

He stops short when he sees a Classification History Museum, right by a small library. That seems as good a place as any to catch up on some of the things he’s missed, as well as give himself a bit of a break from the New York streets.

The crowds thin out once he gets inside, which is a very welcome reprieve. There are numerous displays, but he starts at the one that has a number of key dates outlined, the progression of knowledge surrounding classifications. He angles his cap down and tugs at his coat, shoving his hands into his pockets. The less people that recognize him the better. 

**_1922:_ ** _The first Classification Test is administered. While limited in its detection of classifications and largely based on a series of interview questions, Serena Bishop, a Science major at Harvard University, opened the doors to an entire field of Classification Test Research, furthering the notion that Classifications are something ingrained; something each individual is born with that can be tested for, rather than a medical affliction that’s developed over time._

 **_1925:_ ** _The American Classification Research Institute (ACRI) is formed, with funding from the United States Government, marking an upswing in Classification Research, and an increased interest in understanding not only the Psychology of Littles and Caregivers, but their Biology too._

Steve follows the boards and the glass displays with rapt attention, drifting to the next few sections once he’s finished reading and absorbing. By the looks of things, both Littles and Caregivers are a whole lot better off now, which he can definitely appreciate, even if there’s still progress to be had. There’s a plaque of acknowledgment by the exit of the museum, and Steve is surprised to find that it’s dedicated to the Maria Stark Foundation upon closer inspection. He lingers there for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re looking a little perplexed there.” 

He jolts, shock racing down his spine as he whirls around. A museum worker looks back at him, eyebrows raised.

“Whoa there. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Steve runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Sorry. Just jumpy.”

The man nods, directing his gaze to the plaque Steve had been examining. “The Maria Stark Foundation contributed to a lot of the displays. Kept us afloat when we had to close down for a while.” 

Steve follows his gaze. “The Maria Stark Foundation. That’s — uh — owned by Stark, then?” 

The man studies him for a moment, like he’s deciding whether Steve lives under a rock, before saying, “yeah. Tony Stark. Iron Man. He founded it about twenty-one years ago, after his mother died in a car accident. She was very invested in Charity work, I believe. Partnered with the museum about sixteen years ago.”

Steve nods. “Well, I’m glad it’s still open. There’s a lot of worthwhile information here.” 

“I’m glad you think so. It’s easy to get stuff from the internet these days, but I don’t think that’ll ever beat a trip to a museum.” He pauses, eyes narrowed skeptically, “say, do I know you from somewhere?”

_Internet?_

“I don’t think so,” he lies, “I get that a lot, though. Apparently I’m familiar to a lot of people.” 

“I’ll say.” The man offers him a smile. “Well, I should get back to it. Let me know if you have any questions.” 

Steve forces a smile in return.

He visits the nearby library, and ends up with a library card, which, thankfully, isn’t an entirely foreign concept to him. Fury sent him off with an entire list of resources, all geared towards helping him catch up as much as physically possible within a short frame of time. Some of it is centered around Classifications, some about general world history, and the evolution of technology. He’s grateful that Fury doesn’t expect him to read on one of those tiny screens he keeps seeing out and about just yet. That seems at least mildly headache-inducing. 

Storefronts pass by in a blur, gleaming car dealerships and tech stores, lavish designer brands and clothing stores, all encased behind polished glass. There are flashy billboards and screens about as far as the eye can see, people absorbed in their technology. The traffic looks abysmal, with occasional screeching car horns filling the air, which makes Steve glad that he took the subway. He can’t help but stare when he passes a daycare center specifically catered toward Littles, looking away with a flush when a confused receptionist meets his gaze.

It isn’t just daycare centers; there are stores catered toward equipment for Littles, diapers and pacifiers and cribs and just about everything you could ever need. People walk in and out into broad daylight without shame — not that Steve thinks there’s any shame whatsoever in buying the things you need — but it’s more the fact that people don’t blink an eye as they pass, that it’s so unbelievably... _normal_. 

The afternoon sun beats down on him, warm and lazy, the sky an expansive stretch of blue. In this new world, he can’t help but relish in the very few constants that he finds; sitting alone with a drink, his sketching pencil in hand, New York bustling around him, will never not be enough to bring him comfort, have contentment simmering beneath his skin.

The cafe is close enough to Park Avenue that he can see the Stark Tower, see the way it looms over Manhattan, the very embodiment of all of Stark’s technology, his wealth. It reminds Steve of SHIELD headquarters, sharp angles and shapes with a sleek, deep blue finish. He should be balking at it, really, it’s an eyesore and it’s excessive and it’s absolutely _massive_ and...and he can’t stop drawing it. His pencil runs absent-mindedly over the page, and Stark Tower seems to take shape everytime. The table surface is just the slightest bit textured, and his pencil is just the slightest bit blunt, so the lines aren’t quite as sharp as they are on the actual building, but it’s definitely the tower. For all that it stands out, for all that it stretches upward into the sky like Steve’s never seen before, he can’t help but be fascinated by it. Which is an interesting thought, really, when you apply it to the man himself. 

A cat playground forms in his next drawing. He considers erasing it, but then he decides against it, and soon enough he’s sketching the black cat that used to prowl the small Brooklyn neighborhood where he grew up. 

“Waiting on the big guy?” 

He looks up at the waitress that’s approached his table and blinks. “Ma’am?”

“Iron Man,” she supplies, smiling, “a lot of people eat here just to see him fly by.” 

Steve’s smile tightens, and he gives a terse nod as he reaches for his wallet. “Right. Maybe another time.” 

“The table’s yours as long as you like,” she says, as she fills his cup, “nobody’s waiting on it. Plus we've got free wireless.” 

He hesitates, racking his brain for any clue of what that could possibly mean. “Radio?” 

She looks over her shoulder as she walks away, expression somewhere between puzzlement and amusement. He hears a man from the table over mutter something under his breath, but he tries to ignore it. 

It seems New York is very enamored by Iron Man at the moment. If it isn't Iron Man following him around, it’s Stark himself, or his company. Steve doesn’t quite know what to think of it. He’s used to being put up on a pedestal; he knows that Captain America features heavily in modern-day history books, he knows a lot of people nowadays consider him the stuff of legend, and that’ll always make a part of him feel intensely uncomfortable. Stark was undoubtedly exposed to the press from a very young age, opened up to public scrutiny before he could realize what exactly it was. It’s part and parcel when it comes to stepping into such a big name, but surely that didn’t make it any easier. 

He returns to his drawing, and tries not to think about what the Iron Man suit would look like zooming by overhead. 

~ 

Steve has a nightmare the following Sunday, which isn’t unusual by any means, but this one is particularly harrowing, an amalgamation of Bucky’s plummet into that snowy chasm, and his own plummet into the Arctic. Flashes of Bucky screaming his name, that quickly devolves into Peggy’s voice, begging him to stay with her, begging him to redirect the course of the Valkyrie. Echoes of their voices ring in his ears, replaying over and over like a broken radio, each iteration no less painful and stomach-churning than the last. 

It’s pitch black when he shoots up in his bed, ramrod straight, chest heaving with the emotions flashing through him. He feels cold all over, despite knowing it’s not cold, not one bit, but ever since the ice darkness always does that to him; makes an inexplicable coldness wash over him. He takes in deep gulps of air, wondering desperately why it feels as though the oxygen isn’t quite reaching his lungs, why the miserable feeling that coils tight in his chest won’t let up no matter how much he tries to even out his breaths. This shouldn’t be happening. He doesn’t have asthma anymore, he has the serum flowing through his veins, this _shouldn’t be happening._ It’s like he’s sixteen all over again, fuzzy and light-headed, nausea churning in his gut as he tries to calm down enough to get a bully off an innocent boy’s back. He didn’t like violence, but for him, it was often a means to an end, a last-ditch effort to get the attention on him, just so it wouldn’t be on someone else. 

His gaze drifts toward the brown paper bag that sits in the corner of his room, and the sight of it alone has his chest aching even more with the longing that comes over him. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to clutch that soft blanket to his chest, to let the simmering haziness at the back of his mind bubble over and consume him. He thinks of Stark, he thinks of the hug he’d offered, the smile he’d given him in the elevator, soft, fond, nowhere near condescending. A shudder rattles through him. 

It takes far longer than it should for his breaths to even out, for him to calm down, and he feels fuzzy-headed in a way that he hasn’t felt for a _long_ time. It’s still pitch black in the apartment, and he’s still freezing. He wonders if it’s a remnant from his time in the ice; he doesn’t remember a whole lot, but there’s a chance his body does. It was all-consuming darkness and biting cold until he was brought into the 21st century, after all. 

He can’t be here, at his apartment, surrounded by ghosts and flashes of memories from his past, so he throws on some clothes and heads for the 24/7 boxing club he’s visited a few times already. He stops short when he notices the pamphlet for that Brooklyn cat shelter on the table, but he’s not sure if it’ll be open at this hour, and maybe, just maybe, he’s afraid that if he goes, he’ll see Stark, and he’ll be confronted yet again with the reality of his drop, of his time being small, _actually_ small. 

It’s dark out on the Manhattan streets, but it’s lit from the ground up by harsh lights, filled with the same hustle and bustle, so you almost wouldn’t know it. The man at the front desk doesn’t look surprised to see him. Steve wordlessly hands over some cash, and he receives a set of keys for a locker in return. 

Hours crawl by, but he keeps at his punching bug, uppercuts and right-hooks and even a few punches with no technique, when snippets from his nightmare threaten to encroach, when the fuzzy headspace he’d been suppressing starts to seep its way to the forefront. He still has Coulson’s number on a slip of paper in his pocket, but he can’t stomach the idea of ringing him up when he isn’t on the verge of dropping; he’s just feeling the slightest bit small, that’s all. He grits his teeth and shrugs those thoughts away, landing a blow that sends the punching bag careening across the room and landing on the floor with a dull thud.

Steve steps away, wiping at the sweat that’s gathered on his forehead, only mildly surprised when his gaze lands on Fury, who stands on the opposite side of the room and regards him thoughtfully. He unwraps the bandages from around his hands with careful precision, slow and sure. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Fury asks, low and almost casual. 

He feels a wry smile tug at his lips. “I slept for seventy years, sir. I think I’ve had my fill.” 

Fury looks at him for a moment, curiously intent. “You remember our conversation from a few weeks ago?”

Steve sits down on a bench, runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I do. You here with a mission, sir?” 

He steps fully into the room, stopping when he reaches Steve and handing over a manila file. 

“I believe I am.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* i do love some good old fashioned communication problems...
> 
> this chapter was very introspection-heavy but i promise there will be more interactions next chapter! 
> 
> a few snippets from this are very much based on the deleted scene from avengers (2012) which features steve adjusting to the world, which you should definitely watch if you haven't seen it! i watched it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pov4qMSfg9w&ab_channel=HondaUkraine


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... long. like curl-up-with-tea long. you have been warned <3
> 
> trigger warning for canon-typical violence!

It’s an average Friday morning, the day it all goes down. Or at least, as average as it gets when your name is Tony Stark and you have a not-insignificant number of people who’d like nothing more than to see you buried six feet under. Tony jolts awake when dawn breaks, golden sunlight spilling out over the horizon and casting light onto the paperwork he’d fallen asleep doing. A groan tears its way from his throat, which protests at his first few swallows, like it’s been lined with sandpaper. There _has_ to be like six cricks in his neck, but hey, at least he’d passed out for — he checks his phone, squinting at the bright light that assaults his eyes — eight hours! His body should be thanking him, really, yet somehow he feels even _more_ exhausted after sleeping, like the fatigue has seeped right into his bones and set up shop there.

“Good Morning, Sir. Colonel Rhodes called whilst you were asleep, but I took the liberty of declining it for the time being. Would you like me to return his call?”

“Let me clean up a bit first, J, feel like I’ve just stepped out of a third-rate bar after throwing up in the bathroom for ten minutes straight,” he says, through a yawn. 

“An ordinary Friday night for you then, Sir?”

“Hey,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger toward the nearby camera, “I’m sober now. A changed man. Didn’t you hear? Vanity Fair did a spread and everything, I might as well be America’s golden boy.” 

“I did hear,” JARVIS confirms, sunny as ever, “a lot of people find you inspirational, Sir.” 

“Well isn’t that something,” he says, as he steps into the elevator, “wish I could say it got their minds off my classification, but no dice. Could probably breathe in a Little’s direction and spark about twenty articles worth of hard-hitting journalism about whether or not my presence in their life threatens their safety or not. Spoiler alert: it probably does. Coffee as usual, J, I’m just gonna hop in the shower real quick.” 

“Of course, Sir. And might I add that Director Fury responded to your query regarding Captain Rogers at exactly 3:43 am last night.”

Tony snorts and kicks his bedroom door closed behind him, pulling his shirt over his head. “Does that man ever get any sleep? Does he even _need_ sleep? Genuinely curious here. Go ahead and read it out, JARVIS.” 

“Certainly. It reads: SHIELD has not been in contact with Mr.Rogers, apart from a phone call regarding his classification test. Give it a rest, Stark.”

Tony gives a derisive sniff as he shimmies out of his grease-stained jeans. “Well, you can tell Mister Eyepatch that it was _one_ message, just to make sure that America’s favorite war hero isn’t spending his first few weeks in the 21st century rocking back and forth in a dark corner or something.”

“Will do, Sir.” 

He can’t tamp down on the stab of disappointment he feels at the reply — he _has_ been curious after all, and maybe just the slightest bit apprehensive. Nowhere _near_ enough to try and contact the man himself, because he can’t see that going well for either of them, really, but he _does_ wonder whether that blanket-and-note combo was a good idea or another spur of the moment thing that tends to come crashing down around him. He doesn’t want to go inserting himself into Ste— _Rogers’_ life while he’s still adjusting to well, you know, _an entirely new era_ and all that. Tony has a habit of turning one spark into a wildfire, of making enemies with about thirty seconds of conversation.

It’s just sort of how the cookie crumbles when you tend to play up the whole ‘blustering, smarmy billionaire’ shtick when you’re around new people. It’s better that way — he can deal with people disliking him, especially after all the mistakes he’s made, mostly public. It’s second-nature to him, easier than anything, to brush it aside and go on with his life, try to make up for those mistakes, even if he’ll never quite get there in this lifetime. 

Captain America is...well, a bit of a minefield for him, if he’s being honest, a rabbit hole he doesn’t particularly like to go down even on good days. Anything Howard-related tends to be shoved into a dark corner of his mind under lock and key.

But when he thinks of Rogers, he doesn’t really see Captain America lately, he sees that kid who had clung to him and cried his eyes out until he couldn’t anymore, who had fallen asleep wrapped up in a blanket, thumb lodged in his mouth, who had asked him to _stay._ He winces a little at the thought. Had he expected Tony to stay overnight? He hadn’t even really thought about it at the time, even though he probably should’ve. Fury hadn’t called him back, so he could only assume that Rogers had been okay when he’d woken up. At least, he sure hopes he’d been okay, because Tony has a habit of royally fucking things up without meaning to. SHIELD has linked him up with a Caregiver at the very least, no doubt, someone who specializes in that sort of thing, someone who knows what they’re doing.

The sun is steadily climbing the sky by the time he’s showered, dressed and perched on his marble kitchen countertop with a glass of water in one hand and a drained coffee mug to his left. He takes ginger sips as he soaks in the sun’s rays — he could probably do with some vitamin D, after his three-day lab bender — and tries hard to ignore the way the glass shakes minutely in his grip.

If he dwells on it too long, long-buried irritation will no doubt come bubbling to the surface, that he’s still dealing with these pesky symptoms, even after almost two months. It’s almost like the palladium poisoning all over again, except, well, decidedly _less_ deadly, and with a far easier fix than he wants to admit.

Really, he just wants to go about his life without this abject _longing,_ without these instincts that refuse to let themselves get buried beneath work and life obligations, no matter what damn drug he thinks up. It’s the principle of the thing, after all, he’s a superhero, he’s the face of a reformed weapons manufacturing business, he _shouldn’t_ be trembling like a leaf because there’s a persistent part of him that remains achingly empty no matter how much he socializes.

Not even just the hollow interactions that characterize high-society galas and parties, the transactional schmoozing that fills his discussions with bigshot business executives and investors over coffee, but _real_ conversations, the ones he has with Rhodey and Pepper late into the night, with the sparkling Manhattan lights as their backdrop. None of it ever seems to be enough, partly because they’re all busy people and partly because, on a frustratingly innate level, he craves something more.

He’s read all the literature, read all the articles, and the experience is almost always overwhelming the same — Caregivers can get what they need from their friendships and their romantic relationships, but that only ever abates their instincts, which generally only come forth upon seeing a Little that’s in headspace, but can bleed into their normal mindset if they’re repressed long enough, spilling out all over the place.

The thing is, it’s _enough_ for plenty of people, those relationships, in this modern world that often doesn’t leave them with an abundance of free time. He’s aware that some people feel their instincts more acutely, not every Caregiver is the same the way not every Little is the same, people have different limits, people feel the impacts of suppressing their needs differently, but it _should_ be enough for him too.

Tony blinks, and takes another sip of his water. It’s been happening an awful lot lately, this introspection, this whole ‘trying to rationalize his instincts away’ deal. He’s good at it too, at applying logic and science to things that often aren’t quantifiable, but classifications are a whole other ballgame. 

“Alright, patch me through to Rhodey, J.”

Silence falls for several moments as Rhodey’s icon flashes across the pale blue holoscreen that appears before him. He runs through a few equations for his latest SI project in his head, tries to keep his thoughts from running away from him, as they often do, so quickly sometimes he feels like he’s burning up with it. Then, Rhodey’s face pops up on the screen, shrouded in darkness save for a warm glow of some kind that washes over his features. He squints, and manages to make out the headboard of a bed.

“Honeybear! What time is it over there? Say, where even _are_ you? Or is that top-secret classified shit I’m not supposed to know about?”

“Hello to you too,” he says, tone laced with quiet amusement, “it’s...that’s not relevant.”

“Is it late? It’s totally late, isn’t it. Platypus, if it is anywhere _near_ 3 am, I’m hanging up.”

“It’s like, 8 pm, tops—“

“Oh, so you don’t even know?”

Rhodey drags a hand down over his face. “Befriend a Caregiver, they said.”

“Far too late to return me now, Rhodeybear,” says Tony, grinning, “plus I burnt the receipt, so no refunds. But that’s not the point here, the _point_ is that I know you haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, don’t even try to deny it.” 

“How would you know that?”

Tony snorts. “Because I have cameras installed at your military base. No, because you never get any sleep, and that’s not even about me being a Caregiver, it’s just good old-fashioned powers of observation and — are you actually checking for cameras right now?”

“I never know with you, man,” he defends, “for all I know JARVIS has my exact location.”

“Oh, he definitely does, but again, that’s beside the point. I want you to promise me you’ll sleep after this call, because I don’t wanna have to get Pepper in here, we all know how that’ll go.”

Rhodey sighs, resigned yet endlessly amused. “You’re such a damn mother-hen. Fine.” 

“Sure, but in a charming and endearing way, so it’s cute. Anyways, what’s the latest, Sourpatch?”

“Not sure how I feel about you calling closely-guarded state secrets ‘the latest.’”

“Hey, how do you know I’m talking about state secrets? Maybe I just wanna know how you’re doing. How’d that date go, the one with — Liz? Lisa? Wait, has that happened yet?”

A wince twists across Rhodey’s face. “Lisa,” he confirms, “she was nice, but...she’s a War Machine fan. Like, a _huge_ War Machine fan. She showed me a picture of her room, and, oh man, you should’ve seen it, it was like — a sea of my face.” 

Tony laughs, bright and amused. “Oh my god, that’s amazing. What an icebreaker. You should marry her.”

“Yeah, not sure about that. I told her I changed my mind about being ready for a relationship and we haven’t talked since.”

“Yikes. Well, any good news?”

“A guy tried to befriend me the other day just to get your number.”

“Okay, a) that’s not good news, and b) I totally still got it. Not that there was any doubt about that, but reminders are always welcome. Was he hot?” 

“Good-looking, but nowhere near your league.”

“Ouch. Scathing report from Mr.Rhodes.”

A grin dawns on Rhodey’s face, broadening at Tony’s suspicious look. “Say, speaking of scathing reports, I heard from Pepper about a week ago.” 

Tony groans dramatically and sets his empty glass aside. “She told you about the pacifier thing, didn’t she? It was _one_ time, DUM-E was beeping up a storm, I was shoulder-deep in armor repairs, so I gave him a pacifier. To soothe him! And guess what? Totally worked. He was so confused about what he was holding that he retreated to a corner to examine it for like half an hour.” 

“Why did you even have a pacifier on you?” Rhodey asks, shit-eating grin still painted across his face.

“ _So_ not relevant.”

“Jesus, man. I’ve heard of Caregiver instincts going haywire before, but—“

“You sound just like Pepper, you know that? I’m feeling double-teamed right now, and not in a good way.”

Rhodey sighs, expression sobering. “We’re just worried, Tones. Maybe if you looked into a Little, even just _thought_ about it, babysitting maybe—“

“Don’t wanna hear it, Rhodeybear. Even if I wasn’t an amor-piloting maniac who deals with threats to his life on the regular, I have a mildly-alarming habit of poisoning anyone that comes too close.”

“You know, that’s funny, because I’m still kicking.”

“A testament to your character, truly.” 

Rhodey lets out one final heaving sigh, but he drops the topic in favor of detailing his recent War Machine mission, so Tony hops down from the counter to find a more comfortable surface to settle on, a triumphant smile tugging just slightly at his lips. As is the norm when it comes to conversations with Rhodey, about an hour passes before he knows it, and he only realizes when he sends a casual glance toward the clock on the wall, double-taking in alarm. He tells Rhodey to get to bed, who snorts but relents with one final goodbye and a quick ‘try not to die while I’m away,’ which has Tony laughing at the time, but it ends up being just a little bit _too_ on the nose.

Pepper flies into Manhattan that day, partly to celebrate Stark Tower going off the grid, but also undoubtedly to wheedle Tony into doing some press, getting the word out there that Stark Tower will be sustained by nothing but clean energy. Not that she has to wheedle — there isn’t a whole lot Tony wouldn’t do for that woman, even if he puts up token complaints for image sake. 

So, after Tony takes the entire Tower off the grid and arrives back at the Penthouse once more, the suit disassembling around him, he very happily brushes aside Coulson’s attempts to contact him via JARVIS. Manhattan is lively as always, the sky a cloudless stretch of black, the sounds of general hustle and bustle just reaching them, muffled and quiet yet undoubtedly there. Through the window, highrise buildings glitter, an entanglement of shadows and sharp geometric edges, lights of various shades wink up at them from the interwoven web of streets below, where vehicles either stand in still motion or race by in flashes of color, and they sit on one of Tony’s fancy Italian-manufactured leather couches, sipping at mocktails as they talk back and forth. He _did_ tell Pepper that she didn’t have to settle for a mocktail, he wouldn’t spiral into a relapse if she drank alcohol around him, but she’d merely leveled him with an unimpressed look that could probably make even the most hardened business executive bend to her whims. Tony nodded and continued fixing them a pair of Shirley Temples, point taken. 

“Sir, the telephone. I’m afraid my protocols are being overwritten.”

_Overwritten?_

Tony lets out a great big sigh and exchanges a glance with an amused-looking Pepper. SHIELD had a particular talent for choosing the most inconvenient of times, plus, he’s sort of maybe _very_ irrationally protective of JARVIS, so that whole ‘overwritten’ thing? That’s a no.

“Stark, we need to talk,” he hears Coulson say, voice distorted with interference, no doubt from JARVIS’ scrambled protocols. 

He brings the communicator up to display his face, expression tight with thinly-veiled annoyance. “You have reached the life model decoy of Tony Stark, please leave a message.”

“This is urgent.”

“Then leave it urgently.”

With a mechanical whir, the elevator doors open behind them, and Tony sets the communicator down. “Security breach,” he says, as Pepper gets up to greet Coulson.

“Phil! Come in.”

“Phil? His first name is Agent,” he says, as he reluctantly approaches, tightening his grip on his drink in an attempt to conceal the way it trembles. 

As far as celebration nights go, it could’ve been a whole lot better. Pepper ends up on a jet to DC, and Tony ends up with a whole lot of homework, as well as a healthy dose of suspicion as to why SHIELD seemed so eager to cover up their work with the tesseract. His arc reactor technology is a perfectly low-risk means of providing people with clean, sustainable energy, once he irons out the kinks that is, runs a few more tests to ensure that Stark Tower’s energy levels are holding steady. There has to be more to this tesseract business than SHIELD is letting on, even now that they’ve been severely compromised, and he needs all the available variables to untangle _this_ particular travesty of a mess. Oh, and he ends up with a whole lot of resentment toward this Loki guy. God or not, this all just seems excessive, taking the tesseract and unleashing war on the planet. 

Briefly, he wonders if Fury has already recruited Rogers, whether he’s supposed to pretend that they’ve never met before. He probably will, because he gets the feeling that going into headspace for a man from the forties has to be accompanied by a decent dose of shame, and he’s always been good at pretending. Plus, a potential global catastrophe seems just the slightest bit more pressing. 

Tony shrugs those thoughts away, focusing back on the Extraction Theory papers before him. It’s going to be a long few hours. 

~

If he’s being honest, he’s ever so slightly surprised when Loki stands down in Stuttgart. His weaponry materializes away, retreating back into the armor, and Rogers stands beside him, looking steadfastly forward.

“Mr. Stark.”

Inside the armor, Tony arches an eyebrow. Okay then. He can work with that.

“Captain.” 

Rolling clouds surround the quinjet on their way to the SHIELD helicarrier, charcoal grey and almost... _alive,_ with a certain anger that crackles in the damp air like electricity. Booming claps of thunder fill the skies, deep and rumbling, as the passenger carriage sways, one way then the other. His helmet is off now, but he still sends Loki the occasional glance. He’s been caught off-guard before, and he doesn’t particularly care for it. 

Rogers stands beside him, ever the stoic soldier, downright refusing to meet his eye. Tony doesn’t know whether that’s a Captain America thing or a ‘I’m feeling slightly awkward because we sort of met while I was little’ thing, but he keeps strategically silent, wanting more than anything to just get Loki somewhere more secure so they can work on locating the tesseract. Global destruction doesn’t sound all that fun. Plus, he’s more than a little eager to get into SHIELD’s files, discover what sort of work they were doing with the tesseract under the guise of ‘global sustainable energy’ in the first place. That seems more or less left-field for an intelligence organization that generally concerns itself with matters of global security, not, well, green energy. 

The carriage sways again, another crack of thunder echoing out through the night, and Rogers lists to the side a bit, gripping the bar above his head tightly. Tony looks about at the quinjet, mostly for something to do. 

“I don’t like it,” Rogers says suddenly, glancing back at Loki. He somehow manages to avoid Tony’s gaze.

“What? Rock of Ages giving up so easily?” he asks.

Rogers’ jaw clenches for a moment. He spares Tony a very brief glance, and Tony has the vague thought that Captain America probably doesn’t appreciate people who approach potentially catastrophic situations with flippancy. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much how Tony operates. They’re powerless at the moment, they can’t do anything productive apart from watch Loki like hawks to ensure he doesn’t try anything, so he might as well bring _some_ levity to this mess that SHIELD has them tangled in.

“I don’t ever remember it ever being this easy,” says Rogers, “this guy packs a wallop.”

“Still, you’re pretty spry for an older fellow. What’s your thing? Pilates?” he asks, the tongue-in-cheek coming forth easily as anything. 

“What?” Rogers returns, almost flatly, seeming baffled.

“It’s like calisthenics,” he explains, “you may have missed a thing or two.” 

Rogers _really_ regards him now, eyebrows furrowed a little, scrutinizing as he takes in the armor like he’s seeing it for the first time. Tony meets his gaze evenly, even when the urge strikes him to wince. He didn’t particularly want to draw attention to Rogers’ time in the ice, but he’s never been one for tip-toeing around things, and he does have a certain... _image_ to uphold, particularly with Natasha listening in from the driver’s seat, if he doesn’t want anyone cottoning on to the fact that they’ve met before. 

“Fury didn’t tell me he was calling you in,” he says after several moments, directing his gaze forward again. He shifts, swallowing, and Tony swears there’s an almost embarrassed edge to what he can make out of his expression, cheeks flushed like he really _wasn’t_ prepared to see Tony. Tony doesn’t quite know how to go about silently communicating that he doesn’t have to be embarrassed without alerting the others. He could really do with like, a sixth sense right about now. 

He shrugs, glancing back at Loki again, mostly to give Rogers a bit of space. “Yeah, there’s a lot of things Fury doesn’t tell you.” 

A shock of lightning cracks through the sky, setting dark grey alight in brief, jagged flashes, alarmingly close to the quinjet, which rattles violently. Rogers looks almost _too_ relieved for a distraction, but only momentarily before his expression clouds over with concern, dominating every other emotion. He hides it well though, even as he stumbles a bit, and Tony steadies him with a hand on his arm, almost without thinking. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Natasha asks, as thunder roars again, sounding almost like it’s crashing down over them, it’s that deafeningly close. Wind howls around them, whipping along the sides of the quinjet as it lurches to the right, and Tony is already listing off about a dozen improvements this aircraft could use in his head. Not that Fury would trust him with something like this, something that must’ve cost SHIELD a small fortune to manufacture. 

Steve’s eyes are trained on Loki. “What’s the matter? Scared of a little lightning?”

“I’m not overly fond of what follows,” says Loki.

Which, of course, is how Tony ends up diving into a raging thunderstorm after _another_ damn god — where the hell do they crank these guys out, anyway — who’s trying to put their capture of Loki in jeopardy and, unknowingly or not, destroying any chance they have of locating and recovering the tesseract. Rogers ends up playing mediator, until Thor brings his hammer down on his shield and levels about half the forest they’d crashed into. In all fairness, he _did_ try to warn Rogers that this guy has a serious attachment to his hammer, and that asking him to put it down is apparently like asking him to put a limb down. Some introduction to the 21st century, having a god who talks like he’s from 18th century London swinging his magical hammer at you. 

Rogers still doesn’t seem all that eager to meet Tony’s eye, even when they arrive at the helicarrier, Loki and Thor in tow. He stays unwaveringly professional and clipped, even when Tony’s back and forth with Banner regarding Loki’s portal visibly baffles him. It’s only when Thor expresses his confusion at Fury referring to Barton and Selvig as Loki’s ‘personal flying monkeys’, a Wizard of Oz reference that’s apparently old enough to stand the test of time, that his facade crumbles for a moment, giving way to a mixture of excitement and pride that has Tony’s smile warming just a little despite himself. He can’t help but think of that same combination swimming in Rogers’ eyes on that elevator a few weeks ago, when Tony had told him he was brave, initially in an effort to calm his shaking. He tries to will the memory away.

“Monkeys? I do not understand.”

“I do! I understood that reference.” 

Rogers looks about the room, no doubt taking note of the various stares he’s receiving, and settles back down in his chair, looking almost subdued. Tony tries to take some of the attention away from him, turning to Banner with a bright smile. 

“Shall we play, doctor?”

Quips aside, he really _is_ someone that Tony admires. It’s oddly comforting to know you aren’t the only genius in the room, to have someone who understands you with ease. Even if they have _very_ different ways of expressing and using that intelligence.

Banner returns his smile, if hesitantly — he still seems a bit skittish — and leads him toward the lab, which is a bit of a cramped affair, the computers not as efficient as they could be, but hey, Tony’s not about to be choosy. Banner sets to work scanning Loki’s scepter with a gamma-ray detection scanner, while his gaze lands on the nearby monitors, glued to the algorithms and equations that flash before him. They talk back and forth as they work, trying to set up a way to locate the tesseract, Tony invites Banner to stay with him at Stark Tower, and everything is just _dandy_ , really. Then, Rogers walks into the lab, alarmed and thoroughly unimpressed by Tony’s frivolity, apparently. Sure, he poked Banner in the side with a miniature electric prod, but who’s counting. Everyone on the helicarrier seems more than happy to tip-toe around the Hulk, hesitant to even say his _name,_ and Tony can’t help but think it’s just driving Banner deeper into unnecessary shame, that’s all. 

He _also_ doesn’t seem to appreciate Tony planting a decryption programmer to break into SHIELD’s secure files, and it shouldn’t get to him, really, but there’s an almost ingrained part of him that feels a stab of discomfort at disappointing Captain America. He tries to shove it back down, tries to play up the tongue-in-check blustering he always finds himself falling back on.

“I think Loki’s trying to wind us up. This is a man who means to start war, and if we don’t stay focused, he’ll succeed. We have orders, we should follow them,” Steve insists.

“Following is not really my style.” 

Rogers smiles wryly. “And you’re all about style, aren’t you?”

Tony’s mind feels like it’s been almost fogged over by something, he feels all...riled up, even though he shouldn’t be, annoyance and indignance and several other unpleasant emotions simmering just beneath the surface, ready to explode outward given even the faintest spark. It takes him aback for just a moment, and he’s sure Banner notices, if the frown twisting his expression is anything to go by. He shakes his head, rolls out his shoulders.

“Of all the people in this room, which one is wearing a spangly outfit?” he asks, trying for nonchalance.

“Steve, tell me none of this smells a little funky to you,” Banner adds.

Rogers inclines his head a little, seems to consider it for several moments, before setting his shoulders straight again, ever the dutiful soldier. 

“Just find the cube.”

He exits the lab. Tony stares after him, raising a hand to his forehead.

“You okay?” Banner asks, arching an eyebrow.

He nods, walking back over toward the monitors, away from the scepter. “Right as rain, doctor.” 

Banner sends him a shrewd glance and nods slowly. With Tony’s mind officially unscrambled once more, they continue to work at their respective computers, chatting all the while.

When the argument amongst them all breaks out, he almost should’ve expected it. The room feels inexplicably stifling, thick tension blanketing it as voices talk over one another, loud and discordant and overwhelming, lashing between various corners of the lab like whips. That cloudy feeling has returned with a vengeance, and annoyance surges in his chest, unbidden. His head is in a tailspin, thoughts an almost endless feedback loop of _Howard this_ and _Captain America that._ Gone is any embarrassment Rogers displayed previously, replaced with frustration and anger and — seriously, when did they all get so worked up? _How did he get here?_

 _“_ I swear, Stark, one more wisecrack and I’ll—”

He thinks of Howard, thinks of the Captain America reels he used to show him non-stop, because he was a shy, soft-spoken child and that just wouldn’t do, not when he was a Stark and not when he was going to be a CEO and not when he could be like _Captain America,_ not when Captain America would be _so disappointed in him_ if he knew of his failures, if he knew how much of a man he wasn’t. Howard drinking himself into a spiral after another failure to fish Captain America from the arctic, coming home and finding Tony and—

“You need to step away,” Fury tells Banner, voice firm yet underlied by almost tangible concern, crackling in the air around him.

Banner is getting visibly worked up now, and Tony can tell that all of the attention is almost directly contributing to it, so he does the only thing he knows how to — distract everyone with a pointless wisecrack. Because that’ll work in his favor, when everyone is riled up and divided and at each other’s throats.

He sets a casual hand on Rogers’ arm, “why shouldn’t the guy let off a little steam?”

Rogers shrugs away from his grip, hardened steel in his gaze as he rounds on Tony. The blue light of the scepter glows. 

“You know damn well why! Back off.” 

“I think I’m starting to want you to make me.”

His thoughts race. His emotions are going haywire, bleeding into one another to form one big jumble that he can’t even begin to untangle. There’s a tightness in his chest that just won’t dissolve. Rogers steps up to him, tension wound through every line in his body, eyes alight. Tony lifts his chin defiantly, because he’s never been the tallest person in the room, but he’s well-versed in making up for it by being bigger, louder, _brighter_ than everyone he meets, every businessman or board member that has ever looked down their nose at him, like that’ll ever intimidate him. 

The room has fallen quiet around them. 

Rogers just...stares. And Tony is so baffled that he lowers his chin, lowers his shoulders from where they’d been bunched up, and just stands there as Rogers regards him. Something flickers in his expression, something that Tony can’t quite pinpoint, then, he softens just a fraction, stepping away once more. It’s hard to describe, the way Tony’s thoughts settle, no longer a spiral of whirling chaos, the blinding anger that fades from his body, leaving clarity in its wake. He blinks, surprised, both by Rogers’ display and just how worked up he’d gotten, how he’d somehow managed to bypass the instincts that are practically screaming at him for trying to provoke a Little, that try desperately to gentle his tone and his demeanor whenever he’s around Rogers. Visceral discomfort needles at him. 

“Have we got a location for the tesseract yet?” Rogers asks, voice even. 

“We should have one soon,” says Tony. 

Fury looks between them, bewildered. “What the hell just happened?” 

He glances at the scepter, and he catches Rogers do the same in his peripheral vision. “Why don’t you ask Reindeer Games?” 

The computer by Banner beeps. Tony makes a noise of triumph.

“Got it. Doctor Banner?” 

Banner is still eyeing Fury wearily, but he moves toward the monitor and scans over it for a moment. His expression smooths out with shock.

“What is it—“

A defeating boom echoes out across the room. Blazing fire erupts from down below, an impact of some kind that has the glass around them shattering to pieces, the force of it throwing everyone in various directions. The floor looks as though it’s moments from giving out beneath them, even _has_ given out in some places. Thick grey smoke billows out around him, stinging at his eyes and obscuring the charred remains of the lab from view. His heart jumps right into his throat when he notices that Rogers has landed beside him. He looks up, face smudged, eyes widened in alarm.

“Put on the suit,” he says, as he scrambles to his feet.

“Yup,” Tony agrees, stumbling a little as he stands, barely saved from another fall when Rogers steadies him with an arm at his waist. 

Desperation must bring out the teamwork and cooperation in people, because he and Rogers manage to get the debris out from the engine with only a minor delay, where the suit gets a bit banged up. Chaos rages on all over the helicarrier, and they both listen in on SHIELD’s comms, trying to keep up with everything that unfolds. 

“Agent Coulson is down.”

The shock that slams into Tony would’ve sent him stumbling had he been standing up. A numbness overwhelms him, spreads from his chest down to his limbs, engulfing him entirely. Just an hour ago, he’d been offering to fly the man to Portland to see that Cellist he liked.

Briefly, he wonders if this is the sort of stress that can lead to a Little dropping. He knows they all have different thresholds, and factors like the frequency of their drops also come into play, but he still can’t help the way he scans over Rogers once they’re gathered into the helicarrier briefing room, just the two of them, because apparently everyone else got caught up in some way or another. So much for a team. 

Rogers isn’t wearing his tac suit, but he doesn’t look to be too badly injured, save for a few scrapes and cuts. He chews at his bottom lip, raps his fingers against the hardwood table as he glances about at the helicarrier, in total disarray following the attack, papers and files strewn out all over the place, things missing from their various crevices. It’s hard to get a read on where exactly his headspace is at, but he does look to be almost in a daze. He must feel Tony’s gaze on him eventually, because he looks over. His expression seems more open now, less stoic, eyes wide and shiny, but an attack like that and _news_ like that did tend to rattle a person, so he really can’t be sure. He considers asking how he’s doing when Fury enters, looking unnaturally solemn. Tony eyes him wearily.

“These were in Phil Coulson’s jacket. Guess he never did get you to sign them.” 

Fury tosses a blood-soaked vintage set of Captain America trading cards onto the table before them, and Tony feels an almost irrational surge of anger. There was no reason to show a Little something like that when they could very well already be on the verge of headspace. Even _he_ knows that. 

Rogers picks the cards up one by one, blinking a few times as he examines them, handles them like they’re something fragile, something that could shatter to pieces at any given moment. Tony clenches his jaw but remains silent, keeping an eye on him for any signs of a drop.

“Yes, we were going to build an arsenal with the Tesseract. I never put all my chips on that number though, because I was playing something even riskier. The idea of the Avengers Initiative was to bring together a group of remarkable people, see if they could become something more. See if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles that we never could. Phil Coulson died still believing in that idea, in heroes.” 

The scraping sound of a chair fills the air. Rogers stands, almost dangerously calm, and exits the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a resounding, emphatic thud. Tony stands too, turning toward Fury.

“If that card stunt just sent him into headspace, you’re gonna be down a Captain.” 

Fury sighs. “I need you both to understand that—“

“Oh, I understand just fine,” he says, casually, “SHIELD messed with shit they had no way of controlling, now we have to clean up after you.” He pauses, looking about the room. “You’re lucky I’m good at putting out fires.” 

With that, he leaves through the same door that Rogers did and sets out to search for him, carefully stepping by areas where the reinforced walls have been caved in, the air thick and acerbic with the charred remains of tortured metal. Smoke puffs up from the ground with every few steps. Briefly, he wonders if he should’ve asked for Rogers’ Caregiver’s contact details, in case he’d dropped involuntarily, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

He finds him not far from the debriefing room, in the helicarrier detention section, staring ahead at the empty cell container. His arms are folded over his chest, expression almost scarily impassive, but he doesn’t appear to be little. Warm light plays over his face, but he looks detached, cold. Tony clears his throat to announce his presence, steps slow and pronounced, clanging sharply against metal as he makes his way toward the railing, a few feet away from Rogers. His gaze settles on the empty cell container. 

Silence lapses for several moments. Rogers looks over, shoulders slumped, no longer straight-set with purpose.

“Look, I know you don’t like the idea of me ordering you around, because of—because of what you know about me, but—“

“What?” 

Rogers gives him a shrewd look. “My classification.”

“No, I know. I just— _shoot._ Did I really give you that impression?”

A mixed bag of emotions seem to flicker over Rogers’ face in rapid motion, but confusion wins out. “Was I supposed to get another impression?” 

“No. Maybe. I—that’s probably on me. Look, I have about a dozen different complexes related to authority, and, and control, I don’t do well with orders as like, a rule.”

“You trust yourself to make decisions over other people.”

Tony opens his mouth, to defend himself, to agree, he’s not sure, but Rogers presses on before he can get a word in edgewise. 

“That’s not an accusation. I’ve disobeyed more direct orders in my time than I can count. When we’re regularly faced with a lot of hard decisions, doing the right thing isn’t always as clear-cut as we want it to be. You’re used to making those decisions alone, so you’ve learned to trust your own judgement. I get it. I’m like that too. But if you don’t agree with me on something, I want you to tell me why, instead of going off and doing your own thing. If we’re going to be a team we have to do this right.”

Tony swallows. “ _Are_ we going to be a team?”

“For the next 24 hours or so? Yeah. I don’t like picking up after SHIELD anymore than you do, as far as I’m concerned Fury’s got the same blood on his hands that Loki does, but this isn’t about them right now, it’s about protecting people who won’t be able to protect themselves. We have to put a stop to this.” 

A pause. He’s still reeling a bit at the revelation that Rogers thought Tony wouldn’t want to follow orders from him because of his classification. He wonders if that’s happened before, whether Rogers has ever felt like he’s had to prove himself more than other people, even after the serum. 

Tony wrings his hands together. “Not a day went by where he wasn’t looking for you,” he offers. Well, more like _blurts_. 

Rogers looks over, confused. Tony sucks in a deep breath. It was supposed to be an assurance, an attempt to let Rogers know that at least one of his friends from back in the day never stopped caring about him, but it comes out with an undeniable note of bitterness wound through it. He tries to shove that down, tries to remind himself that Rogers didn’t ask Howard to have a borderline unhealthy fixation on him, constantly _talking_ about him and constantly _looking_ for him and _always_ finding Tony wanting—

“Howard,” he supplies, after a pause, “he always said you were the best thing he created. Never stopped saying it, in fact.”

Even that comes out bitter. So much for comforting.

Rogers regards him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, before shaking his head, running his hand along the length of the railing. “I’m no better than the men I fought with.”

“Should’ve known you’d be noble about it.” A surprising amount of admiration colors his voice. 

“It’s the truth.” 

“I’m sure it is.” 

Tony takes a second or two to gather his wits, stamp down the thoughts flashing through his head, because if he dwells any longer it won’t be good for anyone. Rogers speaks again before he has to.

“I’m sorry about Coulson.”

He blinks, taken aback. He thought _he’d_ be the one offering platitudes in this scenario, but Rogers seems surprisingly sincere, expression open and earnest in a way that has Tony’s chest aching for reasons he’ll unravel at a _later_ date, when Loki _isn’t_ wreaking havoc on the earth. 

“Don’t be. I didn’t know him, not really. Pepper did, I think.” 

Rogers nods. “He called me. A few weeks ago. About...well, that doesn’t matter, but he seemed like a good guy. Nice.” 

Tony swallows down the urge to tell him that Coulson shouldn’t have done what he did, shouldn’t have faced up against Loki alone, should’ve just _waited_. There’s a part of him that’s still seethingly angry at SHIELD, at Fury, but there’s another part of him that’s adamant on staying calm, on being soothing. His gaze darts to the corner of the room, to the wall he’d been too scared to let himself examine, and a sick feeling roils in his gut at the sight of the blood that splatters the wall, a gruesome confirmation of Coulson’s fate if they ever needed one. He looks over at Rogers, shifting nervously when he realizes that his gaze has settled on the same place. His eyes glaze over, lips pressed together in a thin line of suppressed emotion. Tony swallows through the tightness that’s settled in his throat, traveling down to his chest. 

“He made it personal.” 

Rogers jolts minutely, eyes snapping back to Tony, expression sharpening in an instant. 

“He hit us right where we live,” Tony continues, as he paces the length of the railing, eyes darting occasionally to the blood that covers the wall, a shock of bright red against white. “Why?”

“To tear us apart,” says Rogers.

“He had to conquer his greed, but he knows he has to take us out to win, right? That's what he wants. He wants to beat us and he wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience.” 

“Right. I caught his act at Stuttgart.” 

“Yeah. That's just a preview, this is opening night. Loki's a full-tilt diva. He wants flowers, he wants parades, he wants a monument built in the skies with his name plastered... _son of a bitch._ ” 

Rogers blinks. “I don’t think we had the same realization.” 

“Stark Tower. That’s where his power source is, that’s where he’s opening the portal. _Shit.”_

Shock flashes over Rogers’ face, before resolve seems to come over him, eyes clear and expression no longer clouded. He seems steadier than he did a few moments ago, like he’s no longer out of kilter now that a more tangible goal has been presented to him. 

“Alright then. Let’s get this son of a bitch.” 

Tony has the sudden urge to scold him for the language, but he keeps quiet because a) he’d be the hypocrite to end all hypocrites, b) this is not the time for wayward Caregiver instincts and c) Rogers probably has a _mean_ right hook. 

He nods, and they scramble to find Romanoff so that they can put together a semblance of a plan, which is something Tony never thought he’d say, but today seems to be a day of firsts and the world is sort of under siege by aliens so hey, who’s counting?

~ 

Tony is no stranger to almost dying, but this time feels just a little too close for comfort. Out in the vast depths of space, no HUD lit up before him, just all-consuming darkness and an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, the seconds stretching on endlessly, twisting threads of hopelessness winding tight around his heart as he’s suspended, seemingly in still motion, before being yanked back down to Earth by gravity’s pull.

He’s almost certain that his suit is going to become his coffin, but somehow he manages to escape death’s clutches once more and ends up on the demolished, smoking remains of a Manhattan street with Rogers hovering over him, a bright, almost disbelieving smile painted across his face, one that doesn’t waver in the face of Tony’s I-almost-died babbling, something about taking a day off and getting some shawarma. He’s lost the cowl, his hair is disarray, there are dark smudges littered all over his face and his tac suit is so torn up in some places you can see skin, and some nasty-looking cuts that worry Tony a little, but he’s _still_ smiling broadly, and it’s like sun fighting its way through a layer of graphite-grey storm clouds, like a thin strand of golden light against a monochromatic sky. It’s hard for Tony to feel anything but fond warmth and fuzzy-headed relief as the adrenaline starts to leach itself from his body. 

“You know, it’s not often that you wake up to someone smiling at you like a cheshire cat, but I guess it’s also not often that you launch yourself into a wormhole on the other side of the galaxy with a nuke and _man,_ we really did win didn’t we? Wow. I mean, there was really a moment there where I — hey, by the way, did I just make a reference that you actually get, Mr.Rogers? I think I did.” 

Rogers shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as he helps Tony up, a hand hovering by his arm to steady him as he sways. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?” 

“All the time. Rhodey told me just this morning, now you’re telling me, so that makes two today. My record is twelve in one day, though.” 

“You’re something else.”

“My record for that one is only eight.” 

“Uh-huh. _Only_ eight.” 

Even Thor seems amused, which is something. “We should get to the tower, so that we can apprehend my brother.” 

“Roger that,” says Tony.

None of them really get to rest until they’ve taken Loki in and gotten search and rescue underway with the aid of SHIELD. It’s late afternoon by the time they wrap up and head to that shawarma place Tony had suggested, the sun beginning its descent down toward the Manhattan skyline. It’s going to take months to rebuild what was lost, and that’s just the tangible losses — the lives that were taken, the people that were affected, physically and mentally, you can’t put a price on that. Tony has plans to coordinate emergency relief with the Maria Stark Foundation come morning, but for now, he’s so exhausted he can barely see straight. Most of the Avengers have reconvened at the small shawarma joint, all except for—

“Look, I appreciate what SHIELD’s trying to do, but I’m _fine_.” 

It’s easy to make out Rogers’ voice on the relatively deserted Manhattan street, by a couple of parked SHIELD vans. Fury stands several feet from one of them, talking with, or _at_ , Rogers, it’s honestly sort of hard to tell. Tony immediately regains some alertness as he sidesteps the charred remains of a car, resembling a twisted pile of scrap metal now more than anything, and approaches. 

“A quick check-up is all we’re asking for, Mr.Rogers, you may feel fine now but your headspace could creep up on you on the way home, and we’d prefer to avoid any accidents. If you’d just let one of our agents do a headspace check back at headquarters—“

Rogers opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but snaps it shut again when Tony swings an arm over his shoulders, offering Fury an ingratiating smile. 

“I’ll make sure the dear old Captain is okay, Director.”

Fury’s eyes narrow skeptically. Rogers doesn’t say anything, but he looks hopeful, and Fury must see it too if his resigned sigh is anything to go by. 

“We’ll be here for a while. If you drop, we’ll be able to get you somewhere more secure.”

Rogers nods once, and Fury levels Tony with a look he can’t quite decipher before heading back toward the SHIELD van, tapping the communicator in his ear. 

He grins as they begin to make their way down the sidewalk. “Boy, are you stubborn,” he says, and he’s well aware it comes out like a compliment.

Rogers huffs, amused. “I get that a lot.” 

“Oh, I bet. Fury had his fully-fledged _‘I am disappointed in you’_ look going back there and everything. _I_ felt scolded.”

“I’m not really sure he has a leg to stand on, after today.”

“Point.”

A brief silence falls over them as they continue to walk. A certain embarrassment seems to come over Rogers, his eyes downcast and his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“It was the exclamation point, wasn’t it?” 

Rogers gives him a perplexed look.

“On the note I left,” he supplies, “there was an exclamation point. I knew I was coming across too eager.” 

Rogers regards him for a moment, expression twisted with confusion, like he’s trying to decide whether Tony is being serious or not, before huffing a laugh. “No, Mr. Stark, that’s not—that wasn’t it.” 

“But there was something?” he presses.

“I just...you really don’t feel awkward about that whole thing at SHIELD headquarters?” 

Tony blinks. “Awkward? If I came across awkward, it was because I knew I’d get escorted from the premises by an entourage of SHIELD agents if I so much as _breathed_ wrong. Even then, I’ve seen and done so much crazy shit in my lifetime that I think I’ve forgotten _how_ to feel awkward. Zero sense of shame, according to Pep. And Rhodey. And several other sources.”

When Rogers doesn’t do anything but run a hand along the back of his neck, embarrassment practically rolling off him in waves, Tony softens slightly. “Hey look, I know this is probably still an adjustment for you and all, but for me and a good majority of people living in the 21st century, classifications are about as normal as it gets. Nothing I saw that day was weird to me whatsoever. You know what’s weird? Dipping toast into your coffee. Pineapple on pizza. Slipping into headspace after having your entire life uprooted? Not weird. So low on the weird scale it’s not even funny.”

Rogers wrinkles his nose. “Pineapple on pizza?”

“Thank you! I _knew_ Rhodey was wrong about it.” 

“Is that a modern invention?”

“An unfortunate one,” Tony agrees.

Rogers hesitates, shuffling his feet a bit, “maybe it’s one of those things where it isn’t so bad, once you try it. I’ll have to give it a go sometime.”

“The adventurous type, huh? Well, I know a good pizza place. Real hole-in-the-wall, sort of tiny, but you can’t argue with the results. That isn’t me coming onto you or anything by the way, I mean, I know you’ve probably heard the, well, _word on the street,_ hard not to really, when it smacks you in the face every time you pick up a newspaper, but. You know, team-benefactor-and-team-captain, co-workers, sort-of-saved-the-world-together, take your pick.” 

“The press does take a real shine to you,” Steve agrees, smiling, as he retrieves a pen and paper from his pocket. He scrawls something down on it before handing it to Tony. “I don’t own anything with a screen yet,” Steve admits sheepishly, “but I’ve got a landline. Call me up anytime, Mr. Stark.” 

“Tony, please. ‘Mr. Stark’ makes me feel old.” 

“Well, in that case, call me Steve.” 

The conversation lulls again for several moments, as Tony pockets Rogers— _Steve’s_ number. 

Steve looks over his shoulder, back at the SHIELD vans. Another bashful look steals over his face, and he walks slightly closer to Tony as he asks, “so, that’s...normal? These days?”

Tony’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks back, following his gaze. Some medical personnel are checking over a few agents for signs of headspace, and an agent stands just a few feet away, no doubt a Caregiver, holding a Little in their arms and swaying them back and forth. The Little has a pacifier in their mouth, and a shock blanket wrapped around their shoulders.

“Yeah, pretty much. It’s commonplace at most jobs, a space for Littles and their Caregivers, supplies, people that can help out during involuntary drops, that sort of thing. SHIELD has to make sure their agents get home safe, especially after a day like today.”

“Right. That’s—good,” Steve says, as he sends another furtive glance over his shoulder. He folds his arms over his chest, almost defensively, and Tony frowns.

“Cap, if you’re feeling little—“

“I’m not,” he says hurriedly, unfolding his arms.

Tony regards him for a moment. He’s not sure when Rogers’ last drop was, or who his Caregiver even _is_ , which is something he should probably find out. 

“Look, I have my phone on me, so if you need me to call your Caregiver I can.”

Steve shakes his head, a flush blooming on his face. “I don’t have one.”

Tony blinks. “Really?” he blurts. “I thought Fury would’ve been all over that.” 

“I didn’t—well, _don’t,_ like the idea of—well, a SHIELD-Assigned caregiver, or a Government-assigned Caregiver.” 

He nods slowly. That tracks, if he really considers it. Especially after today, Tony wouldn’t much like the idea of a SHIELD-assigned Caregiver either. Still, Steve’s headspace seems pretty young, and dropping alone at that age sounds like a nightmare. The realization hits him that Steve may not have dropped at _all_ since their last meeting, which would be — god, like a _month._ Then _this?_ A pair of gods and an _alien invasion?_ A cold feeling washes down his spine, sharp pinpricks of guilt gathering in his chest. 

Steve must see the horror that dawns steadily on Tony’s features, because he flushes again. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, “really.” 

“You know, I’m starting to think our definitions of ‘fine’ differ pretty drastically,” says Tony. 

Now that he thinks about it, he can’t _stop_ thinking about, and kicking himself inwardly for assuming that someone like Steve, a soldier from the forties, brought up in the twenties and thirties, would easily adjust to having a Caregiver and dropping regularly and _fuck,_ seriously, how could he have not seen this coming?

“Jesus, Cap. You sure you’re up to Shawarma? I don’t wanna start sounding like Eyepatch here or anything but—“

“I’m used to it,” he says, “I’ll be fine.”

“If that’s supposed to be reassuring, I don’t even know what to tell you, buddy.” 

“We shouldn’t keep the others waiting,” he says, in lieu of a reply, and Tony reluctantly lets it go, but he keeps an eye on Steve as they approach the Shawarma joint. It’s looking a little run down, like most of the buildings on this block, but the rest of the Avengers sit together among the chaos, chatting between themselves. Tony sidesteps some shattered glass and takes a seat beside Banner, relieved when Rogers takes the empty seat next to him. 

“Well look who decided to show,” says Clint. 

“Anyone ever teach you about being fashionably late, Birdbrain?” 

“Doesn’t really fly in the circus, so no,” he returns, grinning, “Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s order.” 

With the afternoon sun pouring in through the shattered windows, red-tinged as dusk draws steadily closer, conversations begin to flow between them. Tony strikes up a talk with Banner about the application of nanotech in the medical field, trying not to make his occasional glances toward Steve overtly obvious. He seems to be chatting amiably with Romanoff while they await their food, and for about half an hour afterward, Tony thinks things might be okay, that he doesn’t have to intervene, even though a part of him desperately wants to. Steve may not have a Caregiver, but that doesn’t make _him_ his Caregiver, doesn’t give him a right to look after him unless he wants it. Even if he doesn’t feel comfortable with a SHIELD-assigned Caregiver, there are plenty of Caregivers out there with experience and boundless patience, fully-equipped to make him feel comfortable, to aid him in his adjustment to the 21st century. Tony is...well, he’s a lot of things, depending on who you ask, and an experienced Caregiver isn’t one of them.

Still, he does know the signs of a drop when he sees one, even if Steve himself doesn’t immediately pick up on it. Folding his arms over his chest, hugging himself, drawing in on himself, nibbling at his thumb, smiles wider and more relaxed, expression open. His words come out slower, strung together with a greater amount of effort, and his movements seem more sluggish, delayed, almost. He even starts cutting his food up into smaller pieces. Tony looks about the room, unable to help the way his face twists into a wince when he realizes the situation he’s gotten himself into here. There is no way of pulling Steve aside without drawing attention to themselves, and _fuck,_ they’re literally sitting with two SHIELD agents — one of who is a renowned spy — and a genius. 

“You okay, Mr. Stark?” Banner asks, inclining his head a little.

“Dandy,” he confirms, with a sunny smile, “also Tony, please.”

“Call me Bruce, then,” Ban— _Bruce,_ says, “guess we did just save the world together.”

“That we did, Bruce. That we did.” 

Tony leans back in his chair, glancing over at Steve. He seems to be listening to Romanoff’s back and forth with Barton with half an ear, an arm wrapped around his torso as he picks at his food. God. He feels like he needs to do _something,_ but his brain is still a little foggy with exhaustion and he doesn’t want to overstep.

As the afternoon draws on, Steve’s eyelids droop more and more, until he seems, well, either sleepy or totally out of it. He’s leaning back in his chair, his arms curled around himself, and the straw the ends up breaking the camel’s back is his lethargic “m’fine,” in response to Romanoff asking whether he’s feeling okay, which has Tony standing so abruptly that his chair nearly topples backward. 

“Captain, a moment?” 

Steve blinks up at him like he’s just woken up, eyes glazed over and distant, but he nods, and Tony feels unfathomably relieved when he gets up. His arms linger by his torso though, and he’s starting to suspect it’s not just because of his headspace. 

He turns to Bruce. “Doctor, mind stepping out with us for a minute?” he murmurs. Bruce stands up despite his visible confusion.

The others look mildly concerned, but they seem to think that Steve might just be worn out from the battle, so they resume their conversation. Tony can absolutely work with that. Spinning up lies is _so_ much easier when he’s not on the verge of falling asleep standing. Really, the only thing that has energy surging inside him at the moment is Steve’s potential slide into headspace. 

There’s an alley beside the Shawarma joint, dusty and filled with rubble like the rest of the street, but it offers them a level of privacy. 

“Cap, did you get hit?” he asks, fighting the urge to soften his voice. He’d prefer that Bruce got a look at any wounds he has before a drop, and talking as usual may help Steve hang onto his big headspace for the time being.

“Uh. Yeah, I did. But it’s—“

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘fine’ I’ll cry, really,” he says, as he shrugs his jacket off and lays it out on the ground. It’s not a first-rate set-up, but it’s the best option he has for now, considering this is a relatively time-sensitive matter.

“‘Tis but a scratch’ and ‘my healing factor will take care of it’ are forbidden too, big guy. Trust me when I say I’m an ugly crier.” 

A small smile curls at the corner of Steve’s mouth. He looks at him, and there’s a certain softness to his features now, an openness that wasn’t there before, and — okay, maybe Not-So-Big-Guy, then.

“Where’d you get hit?” Bruce asks, calm as anything, and Tony is only a little jealous.

Tony guides Steve to sit down on the jacket he’d laid out, and honestly considers taking his shirt off too for a moment, to provide the slightest bit of extra comfort, but he’s sort of not wearing anything underneath it, so. Maybe not. 

“Just here,” Steve says, gesturing to the left side of his torso. His voice is soft, a total counterpoint to the commanding tone he’d used out on the battlefield just hours ago. Tony settles on the concrete beside him, holding a silent funeral for his jeans in his head. Bruce crouches down in front of Steve, reaching into his pocket.

“You know, I’m gonna ignore the fact that you have a pocket knife on you, even though I’d _really_ like to talk about it at some point,” Tony says. 

Bruce just smiles serenely. “I was on the run for years. It wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows.” 

He leans in and takes a section of Steve’s tac suit, slicing through it with practiced ease and parting the fabric. Tony winces, and can’t resist petting Steve's arm as a show of comfort, as though that’ll magically heal the burn wound that takes up a good portion of his stomach. His fair skin is mottled with deep, extensive bruising, angry and red toward the centre. There doesn’t appear to be a cut, but it doesn’t exactly look superficial either. Even _Steve_ seems surprised for several moments, before looking up at Tony with big eyes. 

Okay. Okay, he just needs to keep him occupied while Bruce examines the wound a bit. He can do that. 

“How’d you get hit, Cap?” he asks, absently rubbing a hand up and down his arm as Bruce parts the fabric a bit more, surveying the extent of it and brushing over it with deft fingers. 

Steve’s gaze seems to sharpen a bit as he focuses. “There were some Chitauri holding people hostage on 23rd. It was outside of there, they had guns of some kind. That’s what they hit me with.” 

“Didn’t it hurt?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. But — it’s fine.”

“Okay, enacting a new rule. Use of the word ‘fine’ is prohibited until further notice.”

A smile twitches on Bruce’s face as he sits back on his haunches. “It seems thermal, but it should heal on its own. A cool compression pack, a sterilized bandage and some painkillers should do the trick. You should keep an eye on it though, monitor how it’s healing.”

“Do painkillers work on you?” Tony asks. 

“No,” Steve admits, sheepish, “not any that I’ve had, anyway.”

“I’ve gotta get on that. Speaking of things to get on, that suit is a _travesty_. We gotta get you something reinforced, something with kevlar.” 

“You don’t—“

“Have to? That’s good, because I want to.”

Steve doesn’t argue, just settles back against the brick wall and brings his knees up to his chest. That’s a sign if Tony’s ever seen one. 

“Brucie bear, mind giving us a moment?” 

Bruce snorts at the nickname, but obliges. He looks toward Steve. “If you need anything, let me know.” 

Steve offers him a small smile and a nod. Tony waits until he can hear the telltale jingle of the bell just above the restaurant door before scooting closer to Steve, gathering up a bit of dust on his jeans in the process, which resemble a dull brown now rather than their original blue. 

“Are you feeling little right now?” he asks, dropping his cadence down to something softer. 

Steve chews at his bottom lip, and Tony gives his arm a reassuring pat. “Hey, it’s fine if you are. I just need all the variables here, so that I can figure out what to do.”

He looks down at his lap. “Yeah.” 

“Okay. Alright. Close to a drop, then?” 

“I think so.” 

Tony shifts, wincing a little as his muscles protest the concrete ground. He really needs to get them somewhere more comfortable. 

“Are you okay with me looking after you?” 

Steve flushes, and brings his knees up further. “Only if you’re okay with it. I don’t wanna put anything on you. Not like last time.” 

“Hey, you didn’t put anything on me last time. Did Fury call me in? Yeah. But I wanted to help, and I want to help now.” 

He looks like he doesn’t quite believe it, but he nods anyway. 

“I know this isn’t exactly an ideal time for the boundaries song and dance, or—or anything, really, I mean, aliens just invaded Manhattan, what’s up with that.” He takes a deep breath. “But given your headspace age, there’s a good chance you’ll need—“

“Please don’t say it.” 

Tony presses his lips together. There’s no quick fix for the attitude toward headspace that’s ingrained in Steve, deeply rooted from years upon years of conditioning. He knows that. Still, he tries to gentle his voice some more, to a tone even _he_ didn’t think he was capable of. 

“Listen, Cap, there’s no—“

“Shame in it, yeah, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.” He takes a deep breath, lifts his face from his hands, “when I went into the ice, people didn’t— _talk_ about this, they—they either tried to bury it, or fix it. That was only a month ago for me. Now, I wake up, and it’s everywhere I go, people out in the open, jobs accommodating for it.” 

Tony nods. “Culture shock of a lifetime. I get it. Must be weird.” 

“It is,” Steve agrees, “it’s great, that people don’t have to live in shame, but I still can’t wrap my head around it.” 

“That’s fine. Totally reasonable. Is there anything that helps?” 

“You did,” says Steve, before flushing, as though he hadn’t quite meant to be so forthcoming. 

Tony blinks. “ _Me?”_

“I can tell it’s new for you too,” he says, “it’s like you’re — finding your footing. Like I am. It’s...what I found reassuring, on that first day. That you weren’t so sure of yourself.” 

He’s honestly reeling at the revelation, because he hadn’t thought of it that way in the slightest, hadn’t thought that Steve might not find someone who’s the picture of composed and confident and knowing soothing. He thinks of the SHIELD agents and the professionals that had attempted to calm him down beforehand, and it all pretty much fits. 

Tony swallows. “Well, if unsure is what you need, then I think you’re in luck, big guy.” 

Steve smiles, curls in on himself a bit further, but not out of fear, which has fuzzy-headed relief descending down over Tony. 

“Look, uh, don’t die of embarrassment or anything on me here, but I really do have to ask, are you okay with me changing you? Like — diapers, pull-ups, that sort of thing?” 

He can’t quite meet Tony’s eye, but he doesn’t hide his face in his hands again, which Tony considers a resounding win. “Yeah.” 

“Great! No more embarrassing questions for like, at least a day now, I promise.” 

Steve seems content with that, at the very least. Tony looks about the alleyway, at the sun that’s nearing the Manhattan skyline, leaving streaks of orange and yellow in its wake. 

Now to get them somewhere that _isn’t_ an alleyway. 

~ 

It sort of turns out to be a complicated operation. The only people that know Steve’s classification are him, Fury, and a handful of SHIELD agents, so getting Happy to drive them anywhere is out of the equation, even with the partition up. He could technically drive Steve to Stark Tower, or at least, what _remains_ of Stark Tower, but he doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea of not being able to comfort Steve if he’s in distress, and his car is sort of a convertible with no tinted windows, so. Not a whole lot of privacy there. 

Fury knows, though, and although he isn’t the man’s biggest fan at the moment, he can work with that. If they could get Steve to a secure room at SHIELD headquarters, they’ll have supplies and equipment that Stark Tower currently doesn’t have, what with the top few living floors and the penthouse being demolished. 

He chews at his bottom lip. This is a bit of a predicament, and Steve is well and truly starting to slip into his headspace, so he’s sort of on a time crunch here. 

SHIELD it is. It’s the absolute last place he wants to be, but it offers them not only privacy but supplies and potentially beds, so it’s looking like the best option at the moment. 

He snaps back into awareness to find Steve with his thumb in his mouth, looking up at him through his lashes in a way that brings pretty much every Caregiver instinct he’s ever had to the forefront. 

“Okay, kiddo,” he says, as he stands, “let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” 

He holds out a hand, and Steve takes it, stumbling a little as he gets to his feet. Tony steadies him, wrapping an arm around his waist. He peeks out around the corner and, wonder of wonders, Fury is currently the only person there, standing by a SHIELD van and talking to someone through his communicator. 

It’s a bit of a logistical nightmare, what with the Avengers in the shawarma place next to them. He doesn’t have the heart to coax Steve into removing his thumb from his mouth though, so he just tucks his dusty jacket under his arm and keeps the other around Steve, taking some of his weight. 

Fury’s eyebrows raise when he catches sight of them, Tony sending a few furtive glances back toward the shawarma joint. At the very least, this street has been fully evacuated. 

“Need a lift, then?” 

“Yeah. Uh, is there any chance he could ride separately?” 

Fury nods toward the van. “I’m going to be the only person in this one, alongside the agent driving it. There are some supplies in there, I won’t be long.” 

He’s seen these particular vans around, of course, but he’s never actually been _inside_ one. It’s a spacious affair, more than enough room for the adult-sized booster seats that fill some of the spots, with one seat holding a plastic crate of supplies. The partition is up, so they can’t see the agent in the driver’s seat. 

Getting Steve situated isn’t too hard, and it’s a serious upgrade from concrete. He doesn’t know his exact headspace age, a question he probably should’ve asked now that he thinks about it, but Steve takes one look at the booster seat and seems utterly confused, so Tony gets him strapped in on a regular seat for the time being. 

There are unopened packages of pacifiers in the crate, alongside diaper bags, stuffed toys, puzzle books, coloring pencils, blankets, water bottles, and snacks. 

“Well would you look at that, they have pacifiers. Want one, sweetheart?” 

The affection rolls off his tongue easy as anything, as is the case when it comes to literally anyone he likes, Pepper and Rhodey can attest to that, but he tenses for a moment, thinking maybe he overstepped. 

Steve just smiles around his thumb. “Pacifier?” 

Tony nods. “ _So_ many pacifiers.” 

He takes one of the pacifier packages — dark blue with stars on it — and holds it up for Steve to see. Steve examines it for a moment, and Tony wonders vaguely what pacifiers looked like back in the day. 

“Da’ one?” 

“You want this one? We can do that.” 

He tears the packaging and offers the pacifier to Steve, who takes it and slips it into his mouth. It is... _ridiculously_ cute, and he’s not ashamed in the slightest to admit it. He takes one of the blankets, the closest he can find to the one he’d given Steve, and wraps it around his shoulders and his chest, so that his face peeks out. 

Steve blinks, and Tony has the irrational urge to start cooing. 

“Not too warm, kid?” he asks, as he buckles himself in beside him. 

Steve shakes his head. “No warm.” 

“Alright. And what about your stomach? Does it hurt?”

The question must remind him of the burn wound or bring the pain out to the forefront because tears begin to well in Steve’s eyes, and Tony curses himself inwardly. 

“Hur’s,” he sniffles, and Tony nods, giving a sympathetic hum. 

“Yeah, that was some hit you took, kid. But we’ll get you a cooling pack and a bandage and uh—“ _fuck,_ he can’t even offer painkillers. Unless SHIELD has something. He really does need to get on that. “—And uh. A...hug! I can give you that right now, even, if you want.” 

Steve considers this for a moment before nodding, and Tony twists a little to draw Steve into the circle of his arms, who goes willingly, wriggling his hands out from under the blanket and clinging onto Tony’s shirt. A few tears spill out over his cheeks, and Tony wipes them away with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Think you can be super brave for me until we get to headquarters? We’ll have more space there, and we can hopefully get you something for your stomach.”

Steve’s next breath hitches a little on the inhale, but he nods. “Bwave.” 

“Just like last time, bud,” Tony agrees. 

Fury opens the sliding door at that moment and climbs into the front seat. Steve slumps more heavily into Tony, turning his head to nuzzle into his shoulder. Still shy. 

“Hey, why don’t I tell you about some of the cats from that cat shelter, huh?” 

Steve peeks up at him from his hiding place with hazy blue eyes. “Selter?”

“That’s right. Remember that calico cat Hap and I picked up about a month or so? Her name is Rosie, she’s doing good now. _Super_ affectionate. Plus, she loves Pepper, honestly I think she’s gonna break and adopt her soon, so that’ll be interesting. I’ll probably start finding cat hair in my cereal or something. Totally worth it though.”

Steve processes this for a moment, smiling around his pacifier. “Li’es hugs?” 

“She _loves_ hugs,” Tony confirms, “she hopped onto Pepper’s shoulders last time we were there and fell asleep. I still have pictures.” 

“See Wosie?” 

“Whenever you want, kiddo,” he confirms. 

Steve nods and settles into his side as Tony begins to describe some of the other cats, which, at the very least, seems to take his mind off the pain. He even dozes off some time during the car ride, his head lolling onto Tony’s shoulder and his pacifier still bobbing slowly in his mouth. Tony takes the opportunity to send a few texts to Happy and Pepper to arrange for Bruce to be brought back to the Tower and shown around the R&D floors. He’s not sure how long they’ll end up staying at SHIELD headquarters, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He also texts Fury to let him know about Steve’s injury, because talking out loud might wake Steve, and he could probably do with the rest.

When the car comes to a stop in the underground parking lot, Tony sets about gently waking Steve up, because although he’d love to, he's not quite sure he can carry him through the building. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, running a hand along his arm, “we’re here.” 

Steve whines and nuzzles in closer, squeezing his eyes shut. Tony smiles. 

“Tired, huh? That’s probably fair. But they have beds, with pillows and blankets and all that stuff. _So_ much more comfortable than me.” 

“I sleep,” Steve mumbles. 

Tony snorts. “Oh, you’re asleep, is that right?” He sighs, totally put-upon. “Well, guess I’ll just get all the lollipops for myself then.” 

He really has no idea where it comes from, but it has Steve cracking an eye open. Tony barely smothers a grin. 

“It’s a crying shame Steve doesn’t want any. But he’s asleep, I shouldn’t wake him.” 

Steve draws away, blinking tired eyes up at him. 

“Oh, well would you look at that, he’s awake. Hey sleepyhead.” 

“Lollipop?” 

Yeah. He walked right into that one. 

“We can find you one, but you’ll have to get out of this car with me,” he says. 

Steve smiles a little and nods. Tony sort of wants to buy him an entire toy store. 

He ends up clinging to Tony’s shirt as they cross the parking lot, sucking adamantly at his pacifier and tugging the blanket around his shoulders every few seconds, clearly scared it’ll fall.

“Please tell me you guys have lollipops,” he mumbles to Fury, who snorts.

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Fury calls ahead to make sure that the Little room closest to the elevator is empty, which Tony is grateful for. Steve trails along behind him mostly, fingers twisted into the back of his shirt and eyes darting about anxiously.

The room they’re settled in is spacious, with small windows, painted from top to bottom. It’s not a playroom, per se, but it does have a fair amount of Little equipment, as well as an attached bathroom and a small changing area. Steve looks around wearily, lingering behind Tony for the first minute or so they’re in the room. 

“I think,” says Tony, as he sets his jacket down on the table, “that we should get you changed and cleaned up. What do you say?” 

Steve nods, hesitantly letting go of Tony’s shirt. 

“Hm, okay. Let’s see. Clothes. Clothes. Uh…” He approaches a closet and opens it, eyes scanning the contents. There’s a section that contains folded clothes, plain and mostly unisex, one-size-fits-all type deal. It’ll have to do for the time being. He grabs a shirt and a pair of pants, as well as one of the diaper bags on the bottom shelf and a washcloth. He guides Steve toward the bathroom with a gentle hand on the small of his back and closes the door behind them. 

“Alright, kiddo, let’s get you cleaned up a bit.” 

Steve could probably do with a bath at a later point, from all the dust and the smoke they’d been exposed to that day, but the room isn’t exactly equipped with a bath or a shower, so this will have to do for the time being. His tac suit is pretty torn up already — he _really_ needs something more reinforced — so getting the sleeves down his arms and around his torso isn’t too hard. Tony tries to smother a wince at the sight of the burn wound, but isn’t all that successful, if the way Steve’s expression crumbles is any indicator. 

“‘S bad?” he asks around his pacifier. 

“It’s not bad,” Tony assures him, “I just don’t want you hurting, that’s all.” 

Steve remains silent but grabs gently onto Tony’s shirt again, which seems to be a comfort thing for him.

“I’m just going to wash your face and your stomach a bit, is that okay? I’ll avoid your…” _‘wound’_ sounds a bit too gruesome, “...ouchie. But tell me if it hurts, okay?”

“Kay,” he murmurs, nodding, and Tony sets about wetting the washcloth and drawing it gently over Steve’s forehead, where some dark smudging and a few small spots of blood lie. Steve keeps a hand fisted in his shirt, but his grips gradually relaxes as Tony cleans his face. He feels an undeniable sense of calm wash over him as he works, hands steady. 

Steve giggles a bit when Tony reaches his neck, scrunching his shoulders up, which has Tony smiling, but he stays still otherwise. He may or may not lighten his touch for just a few moments along Steve’s right side, just to hear that giggle again. It’s inordinately soothing, after the day he’s had — after the day they’ve _all_ had.

“Alright! Now we can get you out of this suit and into some more comfortable clothes. No dust guaranteed.” 

“No dus’,” Steve agrees through a yawn that almost has his pacifier slipping from his mouth. His grip on Tony’s shirt has fully loosened now. 

The diapers are also a ‘one size fits all’ deal, the one he fastens on Steve in place of his suit is just the slightest bit big around the waist, even with the taped sides, but it’ll do. He only just remembers to apply a bit of cream and sprinkle some baby powder — it’s been a while, and by that he means he hasn’t really changed a diaper before. There’s a first time for everything, right?

Exhaustion seems to be weighing more heavily on Steve’s shoulders with every second that passes, but he still helps Tony get him into the shirt and the pants, holding his arms out tiredly above his head, which is more than a little cute. His eyes droop a little as Tony guides him toward a plushy-looking chair in the corner and sits him down. He blinks up at him, pacifier bobbing, and Tony smiles.

“You want a blanket, sweetheart?” 

“Bwank...ed,” he says, through another yawn. 

Just as Tony goes to retrieve the blanket from the table, he hears a couple of knocks at the door. He sends Steve a reassuring glance as he walks over, opening it just enough for him to see the woman that stands there — medical personnel, no doubt.

“Hi, I’m Emily,” she says, “Director Fury informed me that Mr.Rogers may have a burn wound of some kind—he asked me if I could take a quick look. Oh, and I have a lollipop.” 

Maybe Fury is alright sometimes. 

“Oh thank god, I was genuinely considering Ubereats for a minute there. Uh—just give me a minute, I’ll talk to him.” 

She offers him a smile as he turns to Steve, who has his arms wrapped around his torso, eyeing the door with suspicion. Tony walks over and crouches down in front of him. 

“Hey, kid. There’s a lady outside — Emily — who wants to take a quick look at your ouchie and help you out a bit if she can. Is that alright?” 

“Help?” Steve clarifies, voice soft. 

“She wants to help,” Tony confirms, “but you can still say no.” 

Steve nods slowly and grabs onto his shirt again, which means Tony is somewhat trapped, so he sits down on the ground by Steve’s chair and pats reassuringly at his knee. 

“You can come in,” he says over his shoulder. 

The door opens hesitantly, and Emily steps inside, a kind smile curving her lips as she closes it again with a soft thud. 

“Hey there. I’m just going to take a quick look at where you’ve hurt yourself, if that’s okay?” 

Steve nods, grip on Tony’s shirt tightening as he curls further into the chair. Tony keeps up the reassuring petting as Emily approaches and sets some of her supplies down on the ground.

“On his stomach, I think Director Fury said?” 

“Yup,” Tony confirms, “from one of the Chitauri’s guns. I haven’t had a chance to run any tests on their weapons, so I’m not exactly sure what they were working with.” 

Emily nods, turning her gaze toward Steve. “Is it okay if I lift your shirt and take a quick look?” 

Steve nods, and Emily gently lifts the hem of his shirt. The sight of the wound alone has tears gathering in Steve’s eyes all over again. He knows that big thoughts and feelings are hard for a Little to deal with while they’re in headspace, and that the injury probably only serves to remind Steve of the battle, of his big self’s worries. Tony starts up a stream of soothing babble, endearments and assurances rolling easily off his tongue as Emily examines the area much like Bruce had. 

She sits back, and her smile takes on a sad edge at the tear tracks that run down Steve’s reddened face, contorted with a mixture of worry and embarrassment. His fingers are still twisted up in Tony’s shirt.

“I’ll disinfect the area and apply a bandage for the time being, just to protect it as it heals. I’ll also leave you with a cool compression pack, that should help some of the swelling go down. If it appears to be getting worse at all, if the pain or the inflammation increases instead of going down, I’d recommend getting him to a hospital, just to check up on things.” 

Tony nods, reaching into his pocket for some tissues to blot at the tears that still cling to Steve’s cheeks. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Steve ends up with a lollipop for being good while Emily checked up on him, which actually seems to settle him a bit as he suckles on it. He gets particularly anxious whenever Tony leaves his vicinity though, letting out heartbreaking little whimpers and reaching for him. He relocates them to the couch so that Steve can curl up into his side, only slightly hindered by the compression pack that covers his injury. Close contact seems to be what he needs at the moment, and Tony is more than happy to provide. It’s been a fraught day for both of them, and even he finds solace in the closeness, in feeling like he can give Steve what he needs, even if it’s just for that moment. His instincts have settled from a cacophony that fills every corner of his brain to a gentle simmer, quiet contentment filling him with buzzing warmth. 

He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and tries not to think about what it would be like if this was a more permanent fixture in his life.

~ 

They all see Thor and Loki off the following day. The other Avengers don’t ask about Tony and Steve’s somewhat abrupt disappearance during their meal, though he had texted most of them a couple of tall tales about Steve feeling tired from the battle and from his injury, and Tony offering him a place to stay overnight at the Tower. Not even Romanoff appeared suspicious, which was a win he’d gladly take. 

Once Thor and Loki are safely off-planet, Tony approaches Steve and his motorcycle, gleaming as the midday sun beats down on it. He’s struck by the sudden urge to invite him back to the Tower, because hey, Bruce is already bunking over, right? What was one more wayward teammate who he may or may not be growing a certain affection toward? 

“Say, where does SHIELD have you shacked up anyway?” he asks, as he slides a pair of sunglasses onto his face. 

“My old place in Brooklyn,” says Steve, “but apparently they’re playing around with the idea of getting me into another apartment that’s closer to SHIELD headquarters.”

“Tangled in their web already, huh?” 

“Looks like it.” 

“Well, stop by whenever. Actually, maybe call ahead, I usually got a lot of stuff going on. But Bruce is staying for a while, and I’m not opposed to a slumber party. Heck, if we get Barton and Romanoff into the mix we can make it Avengers-themed.” 

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Steve muses, “I appreciate it, Tony, but you really don’t have to go through any trouble for me.” 

“Trouble? Who said anything about trouble? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly strapped for cash.” 

“I have noticed,” he says, with a brief glance down at Tony’s tan three-piece suit, “I just. I don’t know. I know, after what happened a month ago, and, well, yesterday, you might...”

“Pity you? Feel the urge to throw nice things at you?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

Tony snorts. “Trust me when I say I tend not to do things I don’t want to do. That goes against every fibre of my being, according to Pepper, and she’s like, the most trustworthy person I know, right next to Rhodey. If it isn’t about pizza toppings, that is.” 

Steve doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods anyway, and he gets this very specific brand of smile on his face, somewhere between earnest and bashful, that makes Tony want to wrap him in blankets.

“Well, I should get going. It’s quite the motorcycle ride to my apartment.” 

Tony has to resist the urge to call for a limousine or something. This is starting to get just slightly out of hand. 

“Me too, I’ve probably kept the good doctor waiting long enough.” He directs a playful wave at Bruce, who sits in the passenger seat of his convertible, and simply raises his eyebrows at him in lieu of a response.

“Call me whenever, by the way. I mean, I’m sure a guy like you won’t have much trouble making friends, but. Still.” 

Steve’s smile tightens. “I think you’d be surprised. But, I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns toward his motorcycle, and Tony makes for his car, startling a little when Steve turns back to him all of a sudden.

“And Tony?” 

He gives him a quizzical look. “Yeah?” 

“I’m not Howard’s best creation. Far from it.” 

Tony freezes for a moment, but he recovers quickly, offering Steve a small, undoubtedly sappy smile. 

“Ride safe, Cap. We might need you yet.” 

Bruce gives him a shrewd look as he climbs into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirrors, mostly for show. Tony just gives him a beatific smile in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, rewatching avengers 1 for this chapter: no...don't argue...you'll upset the baby (me) 
> 
> couldn't resist throwing a smidgen of protective tony into the mix <33


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i'm sorry for the late ish update, i had a hard time writing this chapter for some reason. words are hard 💔
> 
> no trigger warnings that i can think of!

There’s a portal over Manhattan that almost looks like a tear in the fabric of reality. Roiling blue clouds surround it that crackle, set alight by something akin to electricity, bright and brilliant and _terrifying_ , a startlingly similar shade to the arc reactor embedded in Iron Man’s chest. They give way to wispy black clouds toward the edges, forming a rim around the glimpse of deep space that’s only just barely visible from where Steve is positioned.

His heart slams fiercely against his ribcage, chest heaving with the oxygen he tries to suck in between punches and seemingly endless bouts of fighting. There’s no time to confront the reality of it, no time to process that aliens are most certainly real and that Steve may not just be alone on this Earth, but alone in this great big _galaxy_ too, this galaxy that’s teeming with life beyond even his wildest _dreams_ from the forties. 

It had only been Hydra then. 

Now — now there are Chitauri soldiers with physiques that almost resemble his own, yet painstakingly different in every way, from the gnarly jaws that can almost unhinge themselves right down to the bizarre armor they don, the futuristic weapons they wield that seem like they should be from a sci-fi director’s pipe dream, surely.

Chaos rages on all over Manhattan. He watches buildings crumble down before his very eyes and listens as shrill screams fill the air, a discordant cacophony of panic that have his enhanced senses working overtime, trying desperately to keep up with all of the stimuli while dividing his focus between the Avengers and their tactical positions, the updates from Romanoff that sound in his ear, about the portal, anything they can do to close the damn thing. 

The scene shifts, ripples like water, like someone has tossed a stone into it and distorted it, kicking up sediment and sending droplets flying.

Stark has disappeared through the portal, and the seconds seem to drag on endlessly, time comes to a standstill as he watches with bated breath, as his heart pounds so fiercely he can hear the thrum of it in his ears, drowning out the surrounding chaos. It’s almost like tunnel vision, all of the stimuli from his environment blurs, fades into white noise, as he hones in on the portal. 

“Close it.” 

It’s his voice, saying that. Telling Romanoff to close the portal. Duty wars with the blind, unadulterated hope in his chest, the hope he can’t temper, even now. They continue to clash as he watches, the tangled knot of emotions in his gut eventually giving way to sickening horror. Something is wrong, he feels it almost viscerally, something is missing. The swirling clouds curl inwards, closer and closer, until they almost reach the center, and Iron Man still isn’t falling through, he still isn’t—

The portal closes. The electric, lurid blue that had filled the sky is gone without a trace, fluffy white clouds drift on by innocently, carried by the gusting wind. 

Tony didn’t fall through. 

Steve lets out a breath that shudders and shatters around the edges, tears of disbelief stinging at his eyes, alarm and horror twisting together in his gut the longer he stands there, the more seconds pass. 

His heart is going to beat right out of his chest, he’s sure of it, there’s no way—

Consciousness practically slams into him, and Steve sits up in bed so fast he swears he gets whiplash. His breaths are coming out fast and sharp, his skin is cold and clammy with the sweat that’s gathered there, his fists twisted up in his bedsheets so tight that he’s created small tears in the fabric.

He releases his grip slowly, gradually, and takes note of his surroundings, the key features that ground him to the real world, the world where Tony fell through that portal. He hears a clock ticking away in the living room, faint yet audible, he hears the electrical hum of his refrigerator, the brand new one SHIELD had set up for him, silvery grey and, admittedly, a whole lot more efficient than the ones from back in his day. That is — based on what he’d seen of those mechanical refrigerators, anyway. He’d known they were all the rage, he saw them in the ads every other day, but he and Bucky didn’t exactly have a whole lot of spare change, much like the majority of people back then.

For the very first time since the ice, the memory of Bucky, the tiny apartment they’d turned into a home, of his smiles and even his stupid teasing, it has calmness washing over him, it has his breaths gradually evening out, his chest no longer heaving to keep up. Then, of course, comes the wave of abject sadness, the overwhelming sense of grief and loss. Steve lays back down on his bed and contemplates a trip to the boxing club.

His nightmares have increased about tenfold since the Chitauri invasion — one every day during the week that had almost gone by — so he’s found himself there quite a lot, punching his frustrations away. Sometimes, he’ll read those books he loaned from the library instead, finding an odd comfort in catching up, in feeling like maybe he won’t be lost forever. He’s up to technological advancements now, he’d read through the section on microwaves right before retiring for the night. 

There’s a lot about this future that overwhelms him, but he can totally get on board with easily making popcorn at home. 

He’d been...well, not _avoiding_ , per se, more like...okay, alright, maybe avoiding, the book on Classification Education thus far, because...well, he guesses that’s the question, really. He appreciates the strides that have been made, of course, but reading about it all sends his thoughts into a flurry, almost forces him to confront the reality of his classification, of what it means to people in this day and age.

As he peruses all this information about Little biology, about all the scientific research that has gone into discerning what exactly their needs are to maintain optimal health, physically, emotionally, and mentally (because that’s a real thing with people these days — looking beyond the physical, helping rather than ‘fixing’ or ‘curing’ or just hiding people away from society, fruitfully hoping that they’ll either recover on their own or just perish), Steve can’t help his increasing frustration, that he has _needs_ at all. He was sure he’d left his days of being a burden to others in the past when he’d agreed to that serum. 

His gaze shifts toward the brown paper bag that still sits, deceptively innocent, in the darkened corner of his room, shrouded from view. He’d considered moving it to the closet on several occasions, but for some reason, he just didn’t have the heart to. It’d be better for him, really, if he could just put it out of sight so he isn’t constantly reminded of that fluffy blanket, of _Tony_ , of all the things Tony makes him want, that he _shouldn’t_ want. 

Steve shakes his head. He’s glad that his need for sleep since the serum is relatively limited, because he needs a distraction, something that’ll probably end up keeping him awake into the early hours of dawn. He climbs out of bed and takes a moment to stretch out his limbs, trying hard to ignore the cold that accompanies the dark, the shivers that race through him the moment the blankets are thrown away. They’re thick blankets, featuring some of his Ma’s fancy quilt work, but they still don’t quite ward away the ice that settles in his veins at night regardless of the temperature, much to his everlasting frustration. 

This time, he ends up curled up on the couch with his sketchbook, the curtains parted to let in the light that gradually begins to spill out over the horizon, signaling sunrise. He loses himself between the pages, amidst the penciled sketches that fill them, until gradually, _gradually_ , the stress from his nightmare eases into something more manageable.

That morning finds him motorcycling to SHIELD headquarters, relishing in the cold air that bites at his skin and the wind that whips through his hair. He’s discovering more and more moments like these, brief snippets of joy carried over from the past, the things that will always soothe him no matter how out-of-time he may be.

Sometimes, Steve thinks that things will be okay. Even if that happiness will always be locked up and contained within fleeting moments, at least he’ll _have_ it. At least he’s not constantly swamped by numbness, by apathy — his Ma did tell him once, when the frustration of not being able to do the things his classmates could do reached a tipping point, that it was better to feel than to not feel at all. Maybe, _maybe_ he should be glad that despite all of the grief and the anger and the frustration, he still has the capacity for passion, for feeling the wind on his face as he races through the New York streets, for experiencing joy. 

_At least you’re alive,_ a small, darker part of brain interjects, _Bucky won’t ever get to feel that again. None of the Howling Commandos will ever get to feel that again._

It’s funny, how passing thoughts like that can send his mood plummeting in an instant. His joy is always fragile, always susceptible to shattering, always fleeting. But, he shouldn’t be complaining, really, or getting caught up in all the things he’s lost, because hell, at least he’s _alive_. At least he has a job where he can focus his efforts toward protecting people. He has no right to complain, or be a downer. 

Steve arrives at headquarters feeling somewhat gloomy, but he tries not to show it, conscious of the way he holds himself as he enters. The building doesn’t seem so foreign to him anymore, despite its...flashiness. Still, it’s a bit of an eyesore, all of the reflective surfaces and the bizarre minimalism that seems to be commonplace for buildings these days. There’s a painting on the wall that features...a line? A single brush stroke? Maybe there’s a deeper meaning he’s missing there, in all fairness. Interior design has changed a whole lot during his time in the ice, and he _is_ a man out of time. 

There’s also a poster urging people to get their flu vaccine, with the approach of flu season. That’s an undeniable leap forth in terms of progress — medical science, the widespread use of vaccines, the eradication of diseases that often meant a death sentence in his day. He remembers growing up, seeing various classmates suffer from measles, mumps, scarlet fever, rubella, remembers all of the school they missed while being holed up and quarantined in dark rooms at home, he remembers witnessing people suffer the effects of polio at a young age, permanently paralyzed limbs. He remembers suffering from many of those diseases himself, only compounded by his pre-existing health conditions, he remembers the grief of knowing that his ma was dying slowly from tuberculosis, but being under strict orders not to visit her, in case he got sick. His immune system was weak, after all, it would’ve certainly caved under that pressure.

Steve does his best to shake those thoughts away as a SHIELD agent approaches — the same one that had first visited him in his room, embarrassingly enough.

“Mr. Rogers, glad you could make it. Director Fury is waiting for you up in his office. I can show you the way, if you need a refresher.” 

Steve returns her cordial smile and shakes his head. “Think I remember the way. Thank you, though.” 

She nods, and her smile takes on a slightly bashful edge. “Well, if you need me to arrange for a car once you leave, let me know.” She pauses for just a moment. “I have to say, Mr. Rogers, what you did for New York...it really was heroic. You’re every bit the man my dad used to tell me you were.” 

Steve feels his face redden slightly. “I—uh, it was a team effort, really, but thank you,” he says. 

“Modest too,” she muses, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” She straightens, professional demeanor falling back into place. “Well, I’ll leave you to your appointment. My office is by reception if you ever need anything.” 

He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She offers him another warm smile before turning, heels clacking against the polished tile as she heads toward reception. 

_He still doesn’t even know her name,_ he thinks, as he watches her leave. Maybe he’ll have to ask Fury, to avoid being rude, if anything. And to avoid any embarrassing mishaps down the line.

As Steve makes his way to the elevator, he wonders if other visitors are offered a free car-ride home. The prospect of being treated any differently from other people on the basis of being Captain America is just a little nauseating. 

Still, that agent had known his classification, and she’d still thought that he was capable of heroism, still thought he somehow lived up to the supposed legend. It _really_ hits him, then, just how widespread this change in attitude must be, and it’s honestly a relief he can’t put into words, even if it’s equally jarring. Reading about is one thing, but seeing it? _Feeling_ it? That’s an entirely different experience. 

Fury looks composed as ever, sitting back in his desk chair with his hands steepled. He offers him a nod of acknowledgment, and Steve takes the seat opposite him.

“Any idea why you’re here, Rogers?” 

Steve lets out a breath. “Well, sir, I assume it’s not so you can give me a detention.” 

Fury eyes him, faint amusement flashing briefly over his features. He straightens after a moment, all business. 

“In light of Coulson’s passing, we’ll need to link you up with a new Caregiver, someone you can turn to if you ever need it.” He presses on before Steve can get a word in edgewise, “now, because this only a precaution, I’m not necessarily saying it has to be someone from SHIELD. We’re not trying to be a pain in the ass here, Rogers, we’re just following standard protocol, taking into account the age of your headspace. You need to have someone you can rely on, someone you can contact, so you’re in best possible shape out there on that field.” 

Steve stops short at that, his previous protest dying on his lips. “...And who would it be exactly, if not someone from SHIELD?” he asks. 

Fury regards him for a moment, like he’s trying to discern whether that’s a genuine question or not, before letting out a sigh. “I may be a lot of things, Captain, but I’m not blind. Stark has taken care of you in headspace, and although I may have my reservations, if it gets you talking to a Caregiver, SHIELD is more than happy to put him down as your emergency contact.” 

_Emergency contact?_

“Wait, but Stark—he isn’t my Caregiver. I mean, he’s a busy guy, and he doesn’t need—“

“Have you asked him how he feels about it, or are we playing mind-reader here?” asks Fury, looking a little bored, “because it seems to me that, for some crazy reason beyond my comprehension, you two are a good fit.” 

Steve’s stomach lurches. Whether it’s at the prospect of asking Stark to be his Caregiver or having a Caregiver in general, he isn’t quite sure. He feels a little taunted, despite knowing Fury doesn’t mean it maliciously, at the reminder of his breakdown, of all the tears, of Stark seeing him through it. It’s just another reminder of his loss of control, of his inability to suppress the part of him that wants more than anything to be small. 

“Look, I’ll work this out on my own, really. I have Stark’s phone number if that’s what you need to know, but I don’t need SHIELD interfering. I’ll do some research, find out how to look out for myself in—when I’m...” he trails off lamely. 

Fury sighs again. “You’ll still need an emergency contact. And can I actually trust you to use Stark’s number in the case of an emergency?” 

Steve hesitates for several moments before nodding once. At this stage, he just needs to get Fury off his back. 

Fury scrutinizes him for a moment. Steve returns his gaze evenly. 

“Fair warning, Captain, I’ll be contacting Stark to let him know.” 

Steve’s heart leaps into his throat at those words. He hadn’t even thought about that. 

“Uh—just about the emergency contact thing, right? He’s not my Caregiver.”

Fury looks up at the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. “Just the emergency contact,” he confirms, “now, let’s move on, because Stark isn’t the only person who’s busy and I have a lot of shit to be doing.” 

“Nothing to do with the tesseract, I hope.” 

That earns him a flat look. “You guys keep doing our job for us and I’ll see what I can do.” 

Steve smiles, just a slight upturn of lips, and listens as Fury rattles on about the apartment they’re looking at relocating him to in the near future, as well as the SHIELD-issued cellphone he’ll be receiving because _, ‘seriously, Cap, if I have to call you every damn time I want to get in contact with you, we’re going to have problems.’_

It was sort of inevitable, he supposes, as he looks down at the sleek white box in his hand, feeling just a little bit at a loss. It’s just so... _tiny_. He’s seen cellphones being used by what had to be hundreds of people at this point, and he can never fathom just how fast their fingers move across the small screen. 

There’s a café connected to SHIELD headquarters that he ends up getting a muffin and a coffee from, settling down in one of the small booths and watching for a moment as people drift by outside, some alone, tapping away at their cellphones, some with friends, laughter written into the lines of their faces. His fingers itch for a pencil, something he can use to sketch the small snippet of New York that’s visible through the window, the rays of sun that pour inside, casting golden light over the hardwood table before him. 

“Hey there, stranger.” 

Steve looks up, slightly alarmed when Romanoff slides into the booth beside him. 

He still isn’t quite sure what to think of her if he’s being honest, what to make of her perfectly concocted expressions, her uncanny ability to be exactly what any one person wants to see. A mirrorball, for all intents and purposes. He’s never sure which version of her is real, when he’s being tested or played. The information in her SHIELD file was limited, and Fury keeps any information regarding her past close to his chest, especially from Steve, which had lead him to the conclusion that Fury thinks it’ll color his opinion of her somehow, that she’s done things he knows Steve wouldn’t approve of. 

Right now, though, her smile is kind, just a little teasing, and Steve can work with that. He’s not one to hold a person’s pasts against them, especially not if they’re doing everything within their power to change. They both want the same thing at the end of the day, and she _is_ a very impressive woman. Fiercely competent, endlessly capable. Peggy flashes through his mind for a brief moment, but he’s quick to chase the memories away. 

“Romanoff,” he greets, smiling just a little, “lunch break?” 

“Not quite. Natasha’s fine, by the way,” she says, intelligent eyes sparking with curious intent as she regards him, before flicking her gaze down to the cellphone box. “New phone?” 

“Looks like it. Haven’t quite gotten past the unboxing stage, though.” 

“I could help you get it set up.” 

“Fury send you?” he asks, a little amused, a little cautious. 

“Not this time. Saw you sitting here all by yourself. Made a pretty lonely picture.” 

Steve shrugs. “You get used to it.” 

Natasha hums, “I guess that _is_ the way.” 

She pulls a small combat knife from a tactical belt Steve wasn’t even aware she had with the civilian clothes she’s wearing, picking the box up and slicing through the tape that holds it shut with ease. 

He clears his throat. “You always got knives on you?” 

“Never know when they could come in handy, especially in this line of work,” she says, with a beatific smile that borders just a little on scary, “not all of us are supersoldiers, Rogers.”

“Steve’s fine,” he offers, because if they’re going to be on a first-name basis, it should probably be a mutual thing, right? 

“Steve, then,” she says, as she pockets her knife and holds up the box, “case in point.” 

He watches as she opens it, putting aside a few cables and a set of interesting-looking earphones in favor of extracting the phone. It’s pure black, sleek and glossy with a screen so perfect that Steve almost doesn’t want to touch it. She presses a button on the side in for a few seconds, and sets it on the table when it comes to life in a flash of light. Steve leans in to get a better look, admittedly curious.

“They all look like they’re one small drop away from shattering to pieces?” he asks, as he eyes it. 

“Pretty much,” she confirms, with a shrug. She pulls out her own phone, and Steve’s eyebrows raise at the various cracks that litter her screen. “That’s just sort of how things are in this business. You might wanna get used to it ahead of time.” 

“Copy that,” he says, wondering vaguely if fragile, shiny-looking things are just the norm now. 

The set-up process is surprisingly straight-forward, once he gets over the initial bizarreness of...well, of having a screen that responds to his touch damn near perfectly. 

Natasha slides the phone toward her, offering him a small smile. “I’ll add my number. Fury’s too. And Barton’s. Think I got Banner’s somewhere in here too,” she says, as she scrolls through her contacts. 

“Do you have Stark’s?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. 

She looks up sharply, eyes dancing as she examines him. Steve tries not to fold under the scrutiny, but it’s a near thing. 

“Not his private number,” she says, slowly, “why, you planning on contacting him a lot?” 

He shrugs. “If we’re all going to be a team, it’d be best to stay in contact.” 

“I’m sure Fury has it,” she says, in lieu of a response, smiling mysteriously as she returns to her scrolling, “or you could ask him.” 

He feels himself flush a little despite himself. Tony had called him once already, under the guise of asking his opinion on some combat gear that he already has in the works, but Steve got the feeling that he was really just checking in. He didn’t think to ask him for his number — he knows Tony has his, though, and he can probably find a way to check his landline later on. 

Once Natasha adds a few contacts, she shows him the basics of texting, of navigating the various ‘apps’ on his home screen, and of downloading new apps, as well as music, miraculously enough. It’s fairly straight-forward for the most part, even if the tiny screen is something he’ll have to get used to. 

“I’ll text you with the website I use to watch movies,” she says casually, “or I could recommend a few streaming services if you wanna be legal about it.” 

“So long as the people making those movies are paid,” he says, which earns him a smile that seems softer than the previous ones, just a little less sharp. 

“You could rent a few movies too, that’s still a thing. I’ll send you a list of the classics — don’t trust anyone else when they tell you which movies are classics. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I do, though.” 

Steve arches an eyebrow. “Guess I’ll take your word for it.” 

“Good. You’ll be set before you know it, then. Anyway, I should get back to it,” she says, as she stands from the booth, “look out for my text. That’s the green icon with the—“

“I got it,” he assures her, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the help.” 

She nods, and remains standing there for a few lingering moments, just regarding him. “Stark doesn’t trust easily, but once you’re in his inner circle, he gets... _too_ trusting. Blinded by how much he cares for someone. I’d be careful if I were you, Steve.” 

He blinks, watching in somewhat of a confused daze as she turns on her heel and exits the café, entering the SHIELD building. He doesn’t quite know if that was a thinly-veiled threat or a warning or what, and honestly, he’s a little scared to ask. 

Natasha seems nice, strange and a little confusing at times, blunt too, but he’s always appreciated that in a person. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that if anyone is going to figure out his classification, it would be her, and he doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

Steve sends her text with one of the red heart ‘emojis’ she’d seemed so fond of when she was showing him the emoticon keyboard, smiling a little when he receives a text back, containing a red heart and a rose.

He doesn’t know Natasha, not at all, but he thinks maybe he’d like to get to know her, as much as someone _can_ get to know her. 

~ 

It’s about 4 am when he gets the call, while he’s in the fuzzy place between sleep and wakefulness, watching through his bedroom window as the first hints of sun warm the horizon. Steve blindly fumbles around for a moment, eventually coming into contact with something cold and smooth that can only be his cellphone, vibrating with the call. He misses the accept button on his first few tries, but he gets there eventually, stifling a yawn as he brings the device to his ear.

“Hello, this is—“ another stifled yawn, “—Steve Rogers.” 

“Cap! You sound tired. Hard day? Wait, shit, what time is it, even?” There’s a pause, followed by some muffled rustling, “Holy hell. When did _that_ happen? Alright, nevermind, you should be sleeping, I’ll call back another—“

“It’s fine,” Steve assures him, consciously trying to enunciate, to keep the syllables from bleeding into each other, “I was awake.” 

“Really? Because you don’t sound awake to me. In fact, you sound about the _opposite_ of awake.”

“I mean. I’m talking. People don’t usually talk when they’re...you know.”

That thing, obviously. That thing people do when they’re lying down in bed, and closing their eyes, and...

“Sleeping?” Tony supplies, amused, “also, I’ll have you know that’s not entirely true, Rhodey used to complain about my sleep talking all the time. I’m a serial chatterbox, apparently. He also seems to think I’m funnier when I’m asleep, which is just, _untrue_ on so many levels, but I won’t get into that, because I did actually have a reason for calling. I think. Wait, give it a second, it’ll come to me. Oh! Right. A little birdy told me that you’re moving soon.”

Steve knuckles at his eyes, blinking sluggishly as he sits up in bed and tosses the quilt covers to the side in one tangled heap, standing up from the bed. 

“This little birdy wouldn’t happen to have an eyepatch, would he?” Steve asks wryly, as he wanders into the living room, mostly to keep himself moving, to get his blood flowing.

“I can neither confirm nor deny, because Captain America moving apartments is top-secret super-classified shit, apparently. But anyway, since you’re moving, I wanted to extend some help. You know. One teammate to another.” 

“You wanna help me move?” Steve asks, amusement seeping into his tone. 

“That was the implication, yes. Why? Is that so unbelievable?” 

Steve shrugs, before promptly realizing that Tony can’t see him. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe you’d have people doing that sort of thing for you,” he quips. 

“Hey, I am _great_ at moving,” Tony insists, “no one has ever moved anything like me, I promise you.” 

“There’s not a whole lot here _to_ move, Tony,” says Steve, smiling now despite himself, “I appreciate the offer but—“

“Hey, it’s not just about moving! I’m no connoisseur or anything, but I think I’ve picked up a thing or two about interior design in my time. Your new apartment’s gonna need a little TLC, right? To make it a home and all?” 

Steve considers this for a moment. “...You’re not planning on buying things for my apartment, are you?” 

“What? No. Of course not. Why would you even think that? What a crazy, outlandish concept, that I would never in a million years — oh, hey, this couch looks good. According to this review here, the synthetic leather is _to die for._ Not sure that gives me a whole lot to work with, but—“

“Tony,” says Steve, nowhere _near_ as exasperated as intended, “I have money. I promise you I can furnish my own apartment.” 

“Right. Of course you can.” A pause. “Okay, but a nice painting — something tasteful, I swear! But if you don’t have at least _something_ up on those walls it’d be a downright travesty, am I right or am I right?” 

“ _Tony_ ,” he says again, laughing despite himself, “if I want a painting up on the wall, I can either buy one myself or make one. I’m _fine_.” 

Tony heaves a sigh. “Okay. Alright. No paintings. No _lovely_ leather couches. But at least let me be there for moral support, I’ve been told I’m good at that. Sometimes. Depends on the day.” 

Steve shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as he approaches the window, curling the arm that’s not otherwise occupied around his waist. He doesn’t know what it is about Tony that coaxes this almost child-like joy out of him, that makes an innate part of him want to smile more and laugh more and just let go for a little while, but it’s getting just the slightest bit alarming. He consciously holds his shoulders straight, runs a steady palm along the smooth white sill of his window. 

“I guess I could do with some of that,” he relents, “but no buying things for my apartment, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Tony confirms cheerily, almost _too_ cheerily. “Anyway, that’s actually only one of the reasons I called. That pizza place I was talking about last week has officially re-opened, so, _if_ you’re amenable, how about some pineapple pizza? For you, obviously. I tend to avoid abominations where I can. The keyword there being _tend_ , because they usually end up finding me anyway.” 

“That sounds nice,” says Steve, trying hard to temper just how pleased he is at the prospect of spending more time with Tony, “got a time in mind?” 

“Well, I’m pretty much revving to go now, but I have a feeling they won’t be open, and pizza at 4 am seems a little wrong. Not that I’ve ever been one for propriety. Got any plans this afternoon?” 

“Not that I can think of,” Steve says. He doesn’t often have plans that aren’t SHIELD or Avengers related. Not these days, anyway. 

“Then it’s settled! This afternoon at say, 1 pm? That work for you?” 

“It does,” Steve confirms, well aware that his smile must shine through in his tone. 

“Great. Need a car to come pick you up? I have about twelve to choose from.”

“ _Twelve?_ ” he parrots, disbelief coloring his voice, even though he shouldn’t be surprised, not even in the slightest. 

“Alright, you got me, it’s more than that. The rest are in a storage garage, though. Haven’t seen the light of day in a while.” 

Steve shakes his head, smiling just a little. “I’ll find my own way.” 

“Well, I’ll text you the address, then. Got any super urgent matters to discuss that just can’t wait while we’re at it or are we good here?” 

He hesitates for several beats, a flush blooming across his face. “Uh. Did...did Fury mention anything else? While you guys were talking?” 

“Uhhh. Oh, the emergency contact thing, right? Yeah, he mentioned that.” 

“It was—it was just to get SHIELD to stop heckling me, really, you obviously don’t have to—“ 

“Steve. Cap. Captain. It’s fine, I don’t mind. I mean, hey, it’s just emergencies, right?” 

He deflates a little. “Yeah. Just emergencies.” 

“Great. Well, I should get back to it, get some sleep even, but I’ll see you this afternoon, Cap.” 

“I’ll see you then,” he confirms. 

The call ends. Steve feels an odd heaviness in his chest that won’t let up even as he putters about the kitchen, fixing himself some breakfast. His limbs feel weighed down, as though gravity is working overtime. 

He likes Tony, despite his initial misgivings, maybe even _because_ of them in a sense, maybe because Tony is so unapologetic, so unwilling to bow to anyone when he believes he’s doing right, and Steve has always admired that in people. He’s calculating, always, and generous, but he still puts up a front of flippancy, an effortless mask of indifference. He has it all down so well, the carefully crafted expressions, the bluster, the tongue-in-cheek, that Steve had struggled to see past it, didn’t think there _was_ anything past it, not until he caught a glimpse of how horrified Tony had looked at the prospect of Steve thinking he wouldn’t take orders from him on the basis of his classification. 

So, yeah, he likes Tony. But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s this part of him that longs for soft things, for warm smiles, for blankets and toys, the part that comes out especially at night, or in the early hours of the morning, when he has nothing else to distract him or occupy himself with.

That part of him looks at Tony and _sees_ all of that, it comes bubbling to the surface anytime Tony smiles, or softens his demeanor toward him even a fraction. It’s a constant clash between doing what’s right, doing what’s necessary, heeding his duty, and wanting more than anything to just let those fuzzy urges to be small take over, forget that he’s in an entirely new world and that the life he was living just a month ago is memorialized everywhere he goes. 

He’s never let himself dwell on it before, had never let his small side have any reign of control over him, for this exact reason — once he lets it in even the smallest amount, the floodgates are officially opened, and all of those tendencies, those feelings, they come pouring right through to the forefront, uninhibited, taking up every corner of his brain.

Steve thinks about all of the people who had been assigned a baseline classification at eighteen, who didn’t have to worry about any of that, and suddenly, he finds himself feeling almost irrationally jealous. 

~ 

It’s an overcast afternoon. The air is humid with the promise of rainfall, infused with the faint taste of salt, and a thick layer of charcoal grey clouds blanket the sky. Remnants of melted frost cover the grass, and a good majority of the people on the subway are rugged up in thick coats, their breath visible in the frigid air with each exhale. Steve doesn’t quite feel the cold so acutely when it’s light out, but he’s definitely not immune, and he’s sure he’s sporting an impressive red glow on his face. 

Amidst the swarming crowds, he manages to make out Tony’s form at a park just across the road from the corner pizza place, and he’s utterly unsurprised to find that he’s taking a call, gesturing about with rampant enthusiasm as he speaks. A smile tugs at Steve’s lips as he approaches the pedestrian crossing, shoving his hands in his pockets against a particularly harsh gust of wind that bites at his skin. 

Tony catches sight of him as he’s crossing, offering him a smile and a brief wave. He says something to the person he’s on the phone with before ending the call, pocketing his phone. 

“You look cold,” is the first thing he says as Steve walks up to him, which earns him a huff.

“Hello to you, too.” 

“How many layers have you even got on? Because, really, I don’t even like this jacket much anyway, it’s an eyesore and JARVIS peer pressured me into wearing it because of the forecast.” 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “JARVIS...that’s the robot that pilots your suit, isn’t it?” 

Tony raises a hand to his chest, scandalized. “Oh my god. You haven’t even met JARVIS yet. That is, a _crime_ , and it needs to be rectified immediately.” He pulls his phone back out from his pocket, “JARVIS here is a learning AI I developed back in the nineties, his functions include but aren’t limited to piloting my suits, running the entirety of Stark tower, and keeping me in check. JARVIS, say hi to the good captain, will you?”

“Hello Captain Rogers, I am Just A Very Intelligent System — JARVIS if you will. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Steve stares at Tony’s phone for a moment, utterly bewildered, before offering the AI a faint, “it’s nice to meet you, JARVIS.” 

Tony smiles. “He’s nice, I swear. Not an evil robot to found here.” 

He remembers reading a thing or two about Artificial Intelligence in passing, but this particular AI seems... _very_ intelligent. 

“So he’s...in your suits, your tower, and your phone?” 

“Pretty much. He’s,” Tony pauses for a moment, like he’s inwardly trying to translate to layman’s terms, “he’s like a very complex computer program, so yeah, he can be interfaced with pretty much anything. Within certain parameters, of course.” 

Steve nods, feeling somewhere between hopelessly perplexed and utterly fascinated. 

The pizza place does end up being pretty cramped inside, so they end up back at the park once they’ve retrieved their orders, on a park bench that’s sheltered by a large maple tree. It’s out of the way without being totally secluded, and the noise from the bustling streets is audible, but not overwhelming. The winds have amped up now, sweeping up the surrounding leaves and depositing them in a flurry, but the weather is holding out in terms of rain. 

Tony is discussing how the new combat gear is coming along when he stops short, eyes fixed on Steve’s phone. 

“That’s it? That’s the one they gave you?”

Steve looks down. “Uh. Yeah.” When Tony’s expression twists further into one of horror, he smiles. “Why? Not up to your standards?” 

“That doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it. The fact that they didn’t give you a Starkphone is actually a direct attack on my person.” 

When Steve begins to laugh, he splutters, “Cap. _Steve_. This isn’t a laughing matter! If we’re gonna be associated in any way there’s no way I can have you walking around with that thing. You gotta let me set you up with a Starkphone.” 

He just shakes his head though, holding his phone protectively to his chest. “This _thing_ is perfectly functional.” 

“Key word there — _functional_. For the sake of my reputation—“ Steve snorts at that, because it’s entirely obvious that Tony is trying to frame upgrading his phone as a selfish thing, when he’s 99% sure it’s not, “you need to let me hook you up with a Starkphone.” 

Steve pats his shoulder placatingly. “It was a nice attempt, Tony, but this phone works just fine.” 

Tony sighs, but relents. “ _At_ _least_ let me set you up with JARVIS’ movie database. Oh! Speaking of which, if you’re trying to catch up on movies, I can point you to the classics.”

He barely smothers a grin. “You know, that’s funny, because Natasha has already sent me a list of the supposed classics, so I’m starting to think it’s all pretty subjective.” 

“It _is_ subjective,” Tony agrees, “it’s just that my list is the correct one, obviously.”

“I don’t know, Natasha said a pretty similar thing about _her_ list.” 

“How about this — you watch her list, then my list, then you can decide whose is better at the end.” 

“That might not be a bad idea. I’ll get back to you,” he says, taking a bite of his pizza. 

Tony looks at him for just a moment, and something flickers in his eyes, something that Steve can’t quite pinpoint. He clears his throat, looking casually out at the park. 

“Some of the animated Disney movies might be a good place to start, too,” he adds, “you know, the princess ones, if you’re into that sort of thing, but they’ve got a lot of them these days. Generally have pretty young target audiences, but...” he looks over, and Steve directs his gaze toward his pizza box, which has suddenly just become _incredibly_ fascinating, “there’s stuff there for adults too.”

“I remember a few of their movies,” Steve says, without looking up, “Buck and I watched Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs when that came out. Think I was sixteen at the time.” 

Tony nods. “Yeah, a whole bunch of princess movies have been released since then. It’s sort of a thing. SHIELD teach you how to use the internet yet? There’s plenty of movie lists on there too, Disney and otherwise.” 

“Natasha explained the gist of it to me the other day,” he hedges, “but I’m still getting the hang of it.” 

Tony hums, taking his phone out from his pocket. “Well, once you’ve got the Google search function down it should be smooth sailing.” 

From there, Steve ends up getting a mini lesson on the basics of using the Google search engine on his phone. He can see how it could become addicting, having so much information at your fingertips; that was the stuff of _dreams_ in his time. 

He’s not exactly sure when it happens, maybe it’s more of a gradual thing, but as the conversation continues to flow between bites of pizza, some of the tension begins to drain from his shoulders, and either Tony’s jokes become funnier, or maybe his smiles just come easier. Either way, he’s a whole lot more at ease when he spots a lady walking her black cat on a leash, a cat that looks awfully similar to the one from his old Brooklyn neighborhood. The cat seems to be having the time of its life, eagerly approaching various trees and sniffing about, rolling over onto the grass. 

It’s only after several moments of watching that he realizes he’d completely stopped talking in favor of smiling, no doubt like a lunatic, at the cat as it explores the park. He looks over, puzzled as to why Tony hadn’t called attention to the conversation stopping so abruptly, only to be met with a small smile. It warms his features, softens his expression around the edges, and Steve feels his stomach twisting itself up into knots at the sight of it. Something about it makes an inexplicable part of him want to start acting a whole lot younger than he is, and he folds his arms over his chest, almost defensively. He shouldn’t be feeling like that right now — especially not when Tony isn’t his Caregiver. 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t register Tony standing up from the bench until a few seconds after it happens. He jolts, alarmed, as Tony steps forth and approaches the owner of the cat like it’s nothing, with a charming smile painted across his face that perfectly coasts the line between confident and bashful. He strikes up an easy conversation, and after a cordial greeting on his part, Steve finds his gaze straying down toward the cat.

“You can pat her,” the lady — Jasmine — assures, “this one’s friendly. I left the trouble-maker at home.” 

“Not one for leashes?” Tony guesses. 

Jasmine laughs and shakes her head. “Definitely not. He doesn’t have much tolerance for that kind of thing. He’s a menace sometimes, but we love him, really.” 

“Hi,” Steve coos, holding out a hand. The cat considers him for a moment, sniffing around, before butting her face into his palm with a loud purr. He swears he feels his heart burst. 

“Does she have a name?” he asks, as the cat happily arches into his pats, small paws sinking a little into the grass as she pads closer to him.

“Her name’s Parker. That’s what the shelter named her, and we didn’t want to change it — it suits her, I think.” 

“It does,” Steve agrees with a small smile, scritching behind Parker’s ears. 

“Parker here is the adventurous one of the two. She’s very affectionate — loves people, loves new places. Can’t get enough of it.” 

As if proving her point, Parker delicately steps up onto Steve’s lap with her two front paws, looking up at him with big green eyes as she purrs like a little lawnmower. 

Jasmine resumes her conversation with Tony while Steve all but fawns over Parker. Before he knows it, he’s giggling every time Parker butts her head into his hand, or his side, and his mind seems to slow down, previously clear thoughts becoming muddled, harder to navigate. All of the background stimuli that he’s normally acutely aware of, courtesy of his enhanced senses, fades to the very edges of his awareness. When he eventually looks up it’s to the sight of a smiling Jasmine and a fond-looking Tony, which has the tension returning to his body in an instant, a flush crawling down his neck as he clears his throat and offers Parker one more pat before standing up from the grass. 

He’s honestly surprised that he’d slipped, even momentarily, because although he’s read up a fair amount about dropping as a Little, _he’s_ personally only ever associated dropping with being in severe distress, or feeling overwhelmed. This time, it had almost felt... _normal._ A natural result of feeling happy, of being relaxed. 

“I think someone’s gonna be a little reluctant to leave now,” Jasmine says, eyeing Parker as she continues to butt up against Steve’s legs, padding between them in a figure-eight, “total sucker for attention, aren’t you?” she coos to Parker, who pipes up with a chirpy miaow. 

When their conversation comes to a natural lull again just a few minutes later, Jasmine bids them both goodbye and Steve watches, a little mournfully, as Parker pads along in front of her down the path. 

He turns toward Tony, who’s regarding him with a certain perceptiveness now, intelligent eyes sharp and scrutinizing. Steve shifts nervously, but otherwise returns his gaze. Tony really has a way of looking at people sometimes like he’s seeing right through them, like all their secrets have been flayed out in the open for him to read and decipher.

“Look, tell me if I’m overstepping here, but...how are things? Headspace-wise, I mean.” 

Steve actively fights the urge to fold his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he says, “I can’t complain.” 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Right. Guess you aren’t a complaining kind of guy. More of a ‘nobly suffer in silence’ kind of guy.” Steve goes to object, but Tony presses on, “look, I’m not trying to be overbearing, or accusatory, or anything like that. We’re on the same team here, Cap. I just...”

He can practically see the gears in Tony’s head turning, calculating what route to take with this, and he knows that’s intentional too, that Tony is letting him see this brief moment of uncertainty.

“I want you to be alright,” he says finally, “think of it as a selfish thing, if you want. I mean, what’s the team gonna do if their Captain isn’t in tip-top shape?”

“I appreciate it, Tony,” Steve says, because he knows it’s very much _not_ a selfish thing, “but I _am_ alright.” 

Tony regards him for another beat or two before nodding. He picks their pizza boxes up from the bench, easily launching into the story of another misadventure from his and Rhodey’s MIT days. Something twists inside Steve’s chest as he watches his expression sharpen once more, watches his normal facade click right back into place.

He tries not to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so hear me out...it wasn't the cat shelter (yet) but there was A cat :) 
> 
> also apparently i tend towards introspection with steve's POV? idk. he's just a very thoughtful boy <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i can't think of any trigger warnings for this chapter apart from some pretty heavy (implied) internalized shame, but as always, let me know if there's anything i should add one for <3

The November light is cold, muting every color within the R&D lab, and the sky is a sheet of white, appropriately gloomy as they approach Winter. Outside, the mushy remnants of fall leaves litter the Manhattan streets, tumbling down from trees before being swept up by the harsh winds and trampled down into the concrete by swarms of commuting people. The lab is a wonderfully warm counterpoint to the chill that permeates the air outside, and Tony is wearing a sweater that’s frayed and faded around the edges, a novelty Halloween one that Rhodey had bought for him as a joke once. His legs are thrown over the back of the couch and his head rests delicately on the cushions, hands restlessly tracing the creases between them. 

Bruce stands at a nearby workstation, face aglow with the holographic screens lit up before him.

He’s still a little...well, _skittish_ , about New York and all of its bustle, about being out of hiding, but Tony has tried to make things as comfortable as possible for him. He knows that the floors of his tower are expansive, even with the few that are currently undergoing repairs, as evidenced by all of the ugly scaffolding along the side of his tower ( _look, he’s not bitter okay, really.)_ Endless marble, expensive leather, sleek, minimalistic, and _yeah_ , a little ostentatious, maybe, with all of its shiny chrome and its sparkling, reflective surfaces. Plus, all of the paintings that Pepper had curated _‘for fun’_ last year, not that Tony’s judging or anything, seeing as they’re probably the best part of each floor and if there’s one thing Pepper has an eye for, it’s tastefully colorful art pieces. 

Quite honestly, it hadn’t occurred to Tony just how... _un-homely_ his home really is, not until he’d invited someone else to stay over. 

There are a few signs of life, sure, a sweater here, a long-forgotten mug of coffee there, but otherwise, it’s all fastidiously tidy and perfect and...and thinking about it really draws his attention to the sharp longing that swarms his chest, that seems almost too much for his body. It recedes with time, enough that he doesn’t dwell on it, but sometimes his gaze will linger on empty swathes of polished kitchen counter or large open spaces that are just begging to be filled with...well, that’s the question. A playroom flashes briefly through his mind, soft toys, shelves filled with sippy cups and bottles. 

He forcibly directs his attention to the rambling words that are currently leaving his mouth, which, really, should be his primary focus anyhow.

“So anyway, this is all just a roundabout way of asking: do you think — hey, wait, hold on a minute, are you even listening to me right now?” 

Bruce offers him a small smile around the control screen he’s manipulating. “With half an ear.” 

“I just poured my heart out to you, Brucie Bear.”

He sighs a little, returning his focus to the experiment parameters before him. “It would help if I knew who this mysterious person was.” 

“ _So_ not relevant. Just—give it to me straight, Doc, am I really cut out for this caregiving business?” 

There’s a brief pause. 

“Am I talking as a friend or a scientist here?” 

Something about the casual mention of ‘friend’ has Tony feeling inexplicably warmed. He knows hundreds of people, random tidbits about their lives, their families, their hobbies, but he doesn’t have a whole lot of _friends_.

“I don’t know. Both?” 

“Biologically, psychologically, physically?” 

Tony continues his gradual descent down the couch, groaning into his hands. “I don’t need a breakdown. Just—an overview, how about that? Gimme the abstract.” 

“The abstract,” Bruce says, humming, “well, as far as your classification is concerned, you’re cut out for caregiving. What age group are you suited to?”

“Uh. Toddlers, I think. Two to four or something.”

Tony honestly hadn’t checked since he was eighteen, and even that’s a blur due to the alcohol-induced haze that made up a good portion of his College life. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, certainly didn’t think he’d ever end up with a Little, and he was right. For the most part.

“So, a bit of independence, but not a whole lot. That requires a lot of attentiveness and special care, I could get into the biological processes that facilitate that—“

“Not the point here.”

“—But it all boils down to: so long as your body is in good working order, then you’re cut out for caregiving. The psychological aspects...well, that’s a bit more tricky, because they can influence the biological aspects. Something tells me you don’t have a lot of faith in your caregiving abilities.” 

Tony snorts. Bruce’s expression betrays just a hint of exasperation. He continues flicking through a holographic list that Tony can’t quite make out — his multi-tasking, Tony has found, is almost on par with his own. In his short stay thus far, he’s surmised that Bruce feels most comfortable when he has something to do with his hands or his mind, which is why he’s taken to leaving pens and stress balls and sudoku books about the place, anything he can toy with or plug away at absently.

“It’s not good to be delusional about your caregiving abilities,” Bruce says, snapping Tony from his brief daze, “but it also isn’t good to second-guess yourself constantly.” 

“I mean. In all fairness, my doubts are entirely founded. I don’t have a lot of spare time on my hands, and—“ _and aliens are sort of a thing and the earth is no doubt becoming exponentially vulnerable to another invasion and everyone thinks he’s got a few screws loose for thinking that maybe, just maybe, he should be preparing for whatever’s out there._

“Which is why you’re currently sitting upside-down on a couch talking to me.” 

Tony splutters, “that’s not—this is educational!” 

“Right,” Bruce says mildly, gaze remaining unwaveringly on his screen, “of course it is. Look Tony, this isn’t the sort of thing you should be ruminating about. Just talk to them.”

He heaves a sigh and slides down the couch cushions further, until his head makes contact with the tiled floor, back bent at an awkward angle that’s probably doing a number on his posture.

“That’s always what it is with you people. _Communicate_.”

“It’s almost like it works.” 

“Lies and slander,” Tony grumbles, as he attempts to right himself and ends up tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap, “expect the SI Legal Department to be in contact any minute now.” 

“I look forward to it,” Bruce says with a wry smile, “pretty sure they have nothing on the entire United States government and its military.” 

Tony considers this for a moment. “Huh. You know, I’m starting to think Pep is right about all of the Avengers needing therapy. Look up the word ‘dysfunctional’ in the dictionary and I bet there’s a picture of us. You know what I think we need? Family therapy.”

“Not sure how I feel about that,” Bruce says absently. 

“Okay. Alright. Hey, look, that’s fine, I’m open. What about some good-old-fashioned couples therapy?” 

“That would be interesting, seeing as we aren’t a couple.” 

“I don’t know, Brucie Bear, the way you leave teacups in the sink sometimes really hurts my feelings.” 

A smile twitches on Bruce’s lips. “Don’t you have things to be doing?” 

“Probably. JARVIS?” 

“I believe you were intending to run a few final tests on Captain Roger’s tactical suit, Sir. In preparation for his arrival at exactly 4:30 pm.”

Tony very nearly chokes on his own spit. “That was today?” 

“Indeed, Sir. I have attempted to inform you of this fact several times over the course of the—“

“Yeah, alright, I got it,” says Tony, stretching his arms out above his head and wincing when that pulls a muscle in his neck. “Well, duty calls. We still on for movie night?” 

Bruce nods. “I’ll wrap up in a few hours.” 

“Great. You missed, _so_ much while you were away, it’s not even funny. This is going to be an enlightening experience, I assure you.” 

“So I’ve been told,” he says, eyebrows raised.

Tony turns to walk backward, pointing an accusatory finger. “I always live up to my word, Doctor Banner.” 

Bruce just smiles, a slight upturn of lips, but for him that amounts to a decent amount of amusement. Tony wonders briefly if all that mild-manner is a Bruce Banner thing or if it’s just sort of a response to having a giant green rage monster locked up inside your head at all times. 

It shouldn’t surprise him that today is the day Steve is venturing over to the Tower, seeing as it had been hovering at the back of his mind over the past few weeks since they’d last met up. He’d finalized the tactical suit, as well as a magnetic shield harness and a few magnetic weapon holsters, ideal for combat knives and other fun things. Today is just a matter of making sure it all fits and maybe even getting him used to some of the mechanisms involved, though that might take a small period of adjustment, to account for the extra weight. SHIELD’s tac suit design had _really_ left a whole lot to be desired. 

He feels inexplicable relief wash over him at the idea of being, at the very least, able to check up on Steve just a little. He’d kept a decidedly _platonic_ distance between them, made an effort not to be too overbearing about his well-being, hid his genuine concern beneath jokes and snarky quips about the team needing Captain America in full health. 

Try as he might to shove it down, there’s a part of him that simmers just beneath the surface, that wants to ensure Steve is sleeping okay, that he’s dropping regularly, that the work he’s taken up at SHIELD over the last two weeks or so isn’t too hard on him, considering his headspace. Steve would hate him for it, he knows that. Still, all of those barely suppressed instincts, those intrusive thoughts that come to him when he catches a glimpse of the empty room on his floor or in the dead of night when he has nothing to do but lie there in bed, they’re just waiting for one final push to send everything boiling over. 

“JARVIS, what’s the ETA again?” 

“4:30 pm, Sir. You have exactly two hours.” 

“Roger that,” he says, “I’m just gonna grab some lunch real quick. Fire up the first test sequence, will you?” 

“Of course, Sir. Might I add that I have taken the liberty of creating a private server for all files pertaining to your latest project.” 

“Great. And my suit ideas?” 

“Filed and indexed under ‘Iron Legion’, Sir. I have placed an order for the raw materials.” 

Tony nods, humming mindlessly as he putters about in the kitchen. There’s a documentary playing on the TV, the muffled sound of it filters in from the main living space. He can make out the words, the question that the presenter asks, about the possibility of intelligent life beyond Earth. It must be an older documentary. 

He puts together a sandwich and fixes himself a glass of water before wandering out into the living space. The dreary sunlight is glaring, pale where it’s cast over the surface of the TV screen. There’s a shot of deep space displayed on it, inky black, barely a star to be seen.

He. He keeps the TV running during the day, sometimes. JARVIS will choose from an entirely random selection of shows, movies, documentaries. It’s comforting, it. It fills the silence that hangs over his floor while he’s there, surrounded by open space. Barely conceals the fact that it takes on an almost cavernous quality sometimes, with how empty it feels. It’s. Fine, really. It’s just. Lately, if he lets his thoughts run away from him, they. Sometimes, they...

The screen changes. The dark sky becomes a grassy landscape, vibrant green, rolling hills and wispy, low-hanging clouds. 

“Sir, it is Thursday, November 29th, 2:42 pm. You on your floor at Stark Tower. You are safe.”

Tony doesn’t realize his breaths are coming out in short, sharp bursts until he registers just how light-headed he feels, an almost buzzing static consuming his brain with the thoughts that race through it, fast enough to blur. His chest feels tight, _far_ too tight, and when he breathes it feels like the air is refusing to reach his lungs, like it takes extra effort where it didn’t previously. 

He looks down at his glass of water, startling at the white-knuckled grip he has on it. A slow exhale escapes his lips as he releases his hold, until the tension wound through his body recedes. His fingers leave a foggy imprint on the glass. 

Tony swallows thickly, resuming his walk to the elevator. 

“JARVIS?” 

“Yes, Sir?” 

“I—I have a few more ideas for some suits. And for that project. Once we run those tests, I’ll put them to paper, or screen, or whatever, make a start on some design specifications.” 

There’s a pause. Tony waits. 

“Of course, Sir.” 

He nods, leaning in to press the button for his workshop floor. 

~ 

“Hm. A little wonky.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh. “That’s hardly gonna matter out on the field.” 

“Right. Of course not. All I’m saying is that if you placed it just a _little_ to the right, it’d be perfect. You’d look composed, ready to strike, et cetera.”

“I don’t see how looking composed is gonna help me fight any better,” he says, even as he grips his shield and pulls it from the magnetic harness strapped across his back. He carefully replaces it, according to Tony’s directions. 

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s not like Miss Widow hasn’t proved that composure totally strikes fear into the heart of your — there! You got it. Perfectly center. How’s it feel? Affecting your movement at all? I know it’s gonna be an adjustment and everything but—“

“Tony,” Steve says, quiet amusement written all over his face, “it’s great. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.” 

Tony waves him off, approaching the hologram that displays the exact measurements for Steve’s suit, just in case any of it needs adjustment. “Nonsense. It’d be a crime if I let you go out on missions in that glorified spandex suit of yours. Well, not yours. SHIELD’s. But same difference.” 

Something flickers over Steve’s face. He sets his shield down, looking solemn. “Look, I know that I’m...well, _officially_ with SHIELD now, but that doesn’t mean I’m in their pocket or anything.”

Tony snorts. “Never said that, Cap. I’m about just as tangled as you are in SHIELD’s business. Besides, you’re not the type of guy to be in anyone’s pocket but your own. I got that vibe pretty quickly.” 

“Right. I just mean— with the Avengers—“

“You’ll make a good Captain, whether you’re with SHIELD in any official capacity or not.”

Steve blinks for a moment, clearly taken-aback.

Tony sighs as scrolls through his checklist. “Please don’t make me say it again, I’m allergic to sincerity. See, look, I’m breaking out in hives already,” he says, gesturing down to his arms.

Steve just shakes his head, attaching his shield to the magnet on his forearm a few times. The suit really _does_ look leagues better than the SHIELD-issued one, in Tony’s totally professional opinion. Heavy-duty kevlar without being too weighty, a deep, muted blue for the most part. He marks down a few brief notes before rounding the workbench again. Steve seems to have become occupied with the large holographic screen to his distant left, compiling various news snippets on an emerging terrorist threat that Rhodey won’t for the life of him divulge any details about. 

Tony flicks the hologram away with a wave of his hand. “You look surprised. I thought SHIELD would’ve clued you in already, what, being a counter-terrorist operative and all that.” 

Steve shrugs. “Haven’t clued me in on a whole lot yet. They got a name or anything on this guy yet?”

“Nah, right now he’s as good as a ghost-story until I get JARVIS decrypting a few... _legally obtained_ files.” 

He gets a shrewd look as he approaches. “You know, if you hadn’t specified that they were _legally obtained,_ I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.” 

“So anyway! I’ll do one final look-over, then you can get back into your civilian clothes,” Tony says cheerily, which earns him an eye-roll. 

Steve stands relatively still as Tony scrutinizes the suit one last time. “Definitely not pinching anywhere?” 

“Definitely not.” 

“And the fit feels alright?” 

“ _Yes_ , Tony, the fit feels alright.” 

“Is that sass I’m detecting there?” Tony accuses, “here I am, trying to make sure you’re comfortable—“

“You’ve been trying to make sure I’m comfortable for the past hour—“

“And all I get sass in return,” he tuts, shaking his head. He pauses for a moment, grinning a little at the unimpressed look on Steve’s face.

“You’ve got a smudge on your face,” Tony notes suddenly.

Steve’s eyebrows furrow a little. “Where?”

“On your right cheek. No, wait, a little to the left. Nope, not there either, wait, hang on,” he says, pulling a packet of tissues from his pocket. He approaches Steve again and tilts his head down toward him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Steve lets out a resigned sigh. 

“Hold still, will you?” he murmurs, as he uses a tissue to clear up the smudge, temporarily leaving Steve’s skin a light red.

“Perfect,” he declares, stepping back once more and laughing slightly at the adorably disgruntled look on Steve’s face. 

He discards the tissue and approaches the workbench. Through the window, he can see that the overcast sky has darkened to a deep blue, pinpricks of light glimmering to life throughout the city. It’s probably time to wrap up. 

“So, Cap,” he says, which tears Steve’s gaze away from where it had landed briefly on DUM-E. “Bruce and I are having a movie night tonight. Lowkey and everything, but you’re welcome to join. We’re ordering in. Haven’t decided what yet.” 

Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” 

“ _Intrude?_ Please, Brucie won’t mind, and I don’t mind either, or else I wouldn’t be offering. Pretty sure even the big guy likes you.” 

Steve considers this for several moments before shrugging. “Alright.” 

“Great! I got a few things to wrap up here real quick, but I’m sure DUM-E wouldn’t mind some company.” 

DUM-E pipes up from the corner with a flurry of excited beeps, which has Tony rolling his eyes. “Yeah, alright, we get it, you like attention. Just try not to burn the workshop down again or else you’re straight back to the corner.” 

Another couple of beeps, these ones more mournful than the last. 

Tony sighs. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

Steve looks between them, vaguely bewildered, before rapidly blinking himself out of his daze and collecting his clothes from where he’d folded them neatly and placed them on a spare workbench. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

“Don’t die,” Tony offers, which earns him a snort on the way out. 

He’s having a hard time getting any sort of read on where Steve’s headspace is at. When they got pizza a few weeks ago it was far easier to notice his little headspace seeping through the cracks, even before he slipped — he’s not sure whether that’s some sort of Caregiver sixth sense or what, considering that Steve has looking cool and composed down to T by now, but this time...there really isn’t a whole lot to pick up. He doesn’t know if that means Steve actually _is_ spending time in his headspace, or if he’s just getting exponentially better at concealing it. He’s gotta have experience, being such a prominent figure during the war. 

Tony is torn down the middle between trying to talk to him, trying to link him up with the Caregivers he’s been looking into, and letting it be for the time being, so that Steve doesn’t try to distance himself out of panic. 

It’s not that Littles absolutely _need_ a Caregiver per se, a lot of them opt not to have one, especially those with an older headspace who aren’t as likely to need constant supervision. But when it comes to someone like Steve, who a) has a young headspace, and b) hasn’t voluntarily dropped before as far as Tony can tell, then it’s ideal to have someone there with them. There’s a reason Caregivers are given some amount of leniency when it comes to urgently needing to be with their Little, even during a working day. Not enough leniency, in Tony’s opinion. 

He sighs as he returns to the screen before him, jolting slightly when DUM-E starts up again with a string of frenzied beeping. One glance backward confirms that Steve is back in the workshop, sporting khakis and a plain shirt. Tony wonders for a moment whether he feels cold at all, or if supersoldiers are just sort of impervious to that on some level.

Steve reaches a hesitant hand out toward DUM-E, as though determining whether the contact is welcome, while DUM-E beeps up an excited storm and wheels in close. A smile graces Steve’s lips as he gently pets his claw. It’s small, surprised, just a little amused, and the sight of it has pinpricks of warmth gathering inside Tony’s chest. 

DUM-E wheels over to the corner of the room, carefully picking his small, red ball up from the ground, before approaching Steve once more. Steve stares for a moment, before looking toward Tony for confirmation. 

“He wants you to throw it,” Tony confirms, affecting casual indifference as he studies his screen, “he’s a sucker for fetch.”

Steve nods and gently takes the pro-offered ball, throwing it toward another empty corner. A smile lights up his face when DUM-E wheels right after it, and Tony grins a little himself as he returns to his notes. 

It takes all of about ten minutes for him to finish up and put a bookmark on some of the projects that are spread out across the lab, shutting everything down for the night. When he turns to Steve it’s apparent almost right away that he’s no longer carrying the stiff tension in his shoulders that had been present not even half an hour ago. His posture seems relaxed, and his blue eyes gleam through the darkness that’s fallen over the workshop.

“Ready to head up?” Tony asks. 

Steve nods, and gives DUM-E one final ‘goodbye’ pat on the claw. Tony manages to smother another smile, but he’s not so successful in tempering the inexplicable protectiveness that surges up inside of him. 

They take the elevator up to Tony’s temporary floor, where Steve ogles his TV for a good minute or so. 

“It’s big,” he notes faintly. 

“Yeah,” Tony confirms, amused, “it’s probably destroying my eyesight or something but oh well.” 

Steve continues to glance about the place, looking somewhere between curious and puzzled, but clearly trying to reign himself in out of some misguided sense of decorum. Tony will admit that the belongings on this floor are pretty minimal, what with it being a temporary set-up and all.

Pepper’s hand-selected paintings adorn the walls, a few New York landscapes and an abstract portrait of a woman wearing what has to be the brightest lipstick Tony’s ever seen. There are shelves and display cabinets that look strikingly empty, and everything is tidy to a fault, the only sign of life being the stray sweater that’s draped over the back of a kitchen chair. 

In essence — _maybe_ not what Steve is used to in terms of a home. 

“JARVIS, how’s the good doctor doing?” Tony asks. 

“Doctor Banner has asked me to inform you that he will be up in approximately ten minutes.” 

“Perfect. Could you be a dear and tell him that Steve is joining us?” 

“Of course, Sir.” 

“Great. Guess we’ll order in then. What’d you think of that pineapple pizza, by the way?” he asks Steve, who looks as though he’s been forcibly snapped from some kind of trance. 

“It was good,” he says, with a sheepish smile.

Tony sighs. “I’m surrounded by heathens. But hey, look, it’s totally fine. I’m open-minded. Sort of. In theory, if I were to order pizza, would you want something with pineapple again?” 

“In theory?” Steve asks, amused, “yeah. But I can pay, Tony. You paid last time.” 

Tony arches an eyebrow. Steve returns his gaze evenly, not backing down. Tony sighs.

“Okay, alright, Mister Fairness and Justice, you can pay.”

“When’s the last time you had pineapple on pizza, anyway?” Steve asks, “you might like it, if you tried it again.” 

“First off, I absolutely would _not_ , second off, I can’t believe you think I’d give up on my principles like that. Quite frankly, I’m wounded.” 

Steve just smiles as he takes a seat on the couch. He’s gotten pretty adept already at discerning when exactly Tony is joking, which is a startling majority of the time.

Tony informs him of his usual pizza place’s number, and Steve makes a call on his non-Stark cellphone. Not that he’s bitter or anything, honest. 

JARVIS turns the TV on, some channel that’s airing a comedy special, and Tony disappears into the kitchen to grab a few snacks. When he returns just a few minutes later Steve’s phone sits precariously on the armrest of the couch, in a way that makes an almost visceral part of him insanely anxious. Steve is, fittingly, pretty indifferent to his phone for the most part. When Tony had asked whether he had it on him when he arrived at the tower, he’d simply shrugged and said ‘probably’, with a terrifyingly similar answer when Tony asked whether he even knew where it was. 

“Oh good,” he says mildly, as he enters the living space, “you still have your phone since the last time I checked.” 

Steve smiles, unapologetic. “I really don’t see what the problem is with not having your phone wherever you go. That seems a little...”

“Unhealthy? Yeah, well, we’re all addicted in this day and age, Steve. It’s like cocaine, except it has a screen and you can carry it around in your pocket and it’s legal for the most part.”

“That’s not good, just for the record. Also I don’t like being too dependent on anything,” he says with a shrug, “I know my way around.” 

Tony goes to respond to that, but the man from that comedy special on TV — the debuting comedian, apparently — pipes up out of the blue with a ‘so my girlfriend told me she was a Little last week,’ and suddenly he’s on high alert, because _that_ turn of phrase doesn’t sound particularly promising. There’s a surge of laughter from the audience, and an automatic wince twists across his face.

“And, you know, at first I went ‘huh.’ But then I thought about it, the daily temper tan—“

Tony doesn’t even have to ask JARVIS to shut it off, because he does so in an instant. Steve is staring at the blank screen that remains with an almost scarily impassive expression painted across his face. 

“What was funny about his girlfriend being a Little?” 

Tony sighs. “Nothing. That guy’s just an idiot.” 

Steve nods slowly. “And how many people like that are out there?” 

He hesitates, mind racing with the best possible ways to approach this. “Look, things are better but they’re not perfect, Cap. Some people like to make stupid jokes, and some people like to laugh at those stupid jokes. _Too_ many people, probably.” 

“And no one says anything?” Steve asks, with all of the righteous disbelief of someone who’s spent his entire life speaking up when he thinks something isn’t right. 

“No, people say things. That doesn’t stop them a lot of the time, though. If anything, it makes them push back harder. Some people are just assholes.” 

Steve looks just a little more subdued after that. He searches something up on his phone, and Tony has the sinking feeling that he’s looking into the specific comedian in question, which will no doubt lead him straight to other comedians with similar jokes in their repertoire.

When Bruce arrives Steve immediately sets down his phone and offers him a surprisingly convincing smile. 

“Doctor Banner,” he greets. 

“Bruce, please,” he returns, a small, almost skittish smile on his face as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, perching right on the edge of the cushion.

“ETA on the pizza is like twenty minutes,” Tony says, looking between them, “but we can get Avatar loaded up before then.” 

“That’s the 2009 one, right?” Bruce asks, pulling his glasses from his pocket and sliding them onto his face. 

“You remembered?” Tony asks, raising a hand to his chest, “you _do_ care.” 

“Play the movie, Tony,” he says, smiling. 

He sighs. “Only because it’s a good one.” 

He gets comfortable in the center of the couch before asking JARVIS to dim the lights and start the movie. Outside, deep blues fade to even deeper greys, and the city lights are well and truly gleaming, resembling a sea of colorful light.

Tony keeps half an eye on Steve during the first ten minutes, more than relieved to find that his focus is absorbed by the movie. The tension that had re-entered his body gradually unwinds, shoulders slumping back against the couch, posture slackening. Bruce is fiddling with the corners of a pillow, and they fall into an easy rhythm of throwing occasional comments about the movie out there. 

It’s only well after their pizza arrives that Tony actually notices it, the minute tremors that seem to race through Steve. It almost looks like he’s _shivering_ , which is odd, because Tony could’ve sworn he mentioned once that he usually runs pretty hot due to the serum, and JARVIS has the thermostat set to the regular temperature. 

He grabs one of the throw blankets that’s draped over the couch, the one with fancy, swirling patterns stitched into it, and wordlessly offers it to Steve, who looks puzzled for about half a second before accepting it with a faint smile. He tosses it over his lap, and it’s large enough that it extends from his socked feet right up to his shoulders. Tony tries hard to ignore the instincts that spring forth at the sight, but it’s a very near thing, especially when Steve brings his legs up so that he can raise the blanket up to his chin. 

About another forty minutes of the movie goes by when he throws Steve another casual glance and stops dead when he realizes that he’s still shivering despite the blanket. _Jesus_. How cold is this kid? He shuffles over a little out of sheer instinct, not enough to be overly noticeable, but enough that Steve catches on and throws him a confused look. 

Tony is acutely aware of the fact that Bruce is still on the other side of the couch, even if he seems pretty intent on the movie, so he doesn’t shift any closer, just hands Steve another throw blanket, plus another for good measure, and drapes a casual arm over the back of the couch. 

He may or may not sneak a couple of extra glances at Steve in all of his blanket-swaddled glory throughout the rest of the movie. To _check_ , that’s all, not because it’s unfathomably cute and it has fondness warming him from the inside out. That would be ridiculous. 

The three of them fall into easy conversation during the transition between movies, where they clear out their pizza boxes and grab a couple of extra drinks. Bruce doesn’t seem to think twice about the tangled mess of blankets that are heaped on Steve’s side of the couch — though, to be fair, it’s a similar situation on his side, with the virtual nest of pillows he’d accumulated throughout the film. 

“So, that’s the experiment I’m working on when JARVIS, he tells me there’s an emergency in Tony’s workshop. Which is. Never encouraging,” Bruce is saying, as he rinses out his teacup. 

Steve stands by the counter, arms folded over his chest, looking thoroughly amused. 

“So, I’m expecting something pretty hazardous, an explosion maybe, a reaction gone wrong. Either that or he wants to show something off and he just needs to get my attention somehow.” 

“Oh, are we telling this story?” Tony asks, as he enters with a few precariously balanced pizza boxes piled up in his arms. “This is a good one. Mostly because I was directly involved.”

Bruce waves a hand in his general direction, like he’s making a point, and Steve nods conspiratorially. 

“Anyway, when I get down there, his workbench is on fire, his shirt’s on fire, and DUM-E is trying to operate the fire extinguisher.” 

Steve visibly tries to fight the smile that’s breaking out on his face, like he can’t quite help but think he shouldn’t be laughing at the blatant disregard for safety protocol, which is probably about accurate. 

“Poor DUM-E,” he notes, which has Tony spluttering with indignance, because DUM-E had _not_ been the one on fire thank you very much. 

“Once DUM-E gets it working, Tony ends up on the floor covered in foam. I still don’t even know what he was testing—“

“A jetpack,” he offers, as he sets about making himself some coffee, “it’s a work in progress but I’m absolutely gonna get it fixed up, you’ll see.” 

“Right. A jetpack. Highly experimental, I’m guessing.” 

Tony grumbles a little at that, but it’s hard to be genuinely ticked off when Steve is smiling the way he is. He listens with half an ear as they talk, depositing snack wrappers in the bin and adding a bit of sugar to his coffee. Once they all return to the living room JARVIS gets the next movie lined up — Star Trek this time — and they settle into their respective regions of the couch. The lights dim once more.

Steve ends up piled beneath blankets again, and Tony tries very hard not to find it too endearing. 

It’s about halfway through the movie that he notices Steve’s blinks starting to slow, growing sluggish. He sinks back into the couch cushions and props his head up with his hand to keep it from lolling. Tony shrugs inwardly and turns his attention back toward the screen. If Steve falls asleep, he can always wake him up later, and if he’s nodding off he probably needs the rest, anyway. Which, of course, he does _not_ examine too closely, or else he’ll start fretting over his teammate’s sleeping habits like a mother-hen. 

Not even ten minutes later, he glances over to find Steve curled up into the corner of the couch with his blankets pulled up to his chin, a peaceful expression stealing gradually over his face as he’s lulled into sleep. The lines of his expression smooth out, and he seems relaxed in a way he often isn’t during the day. Tony can’t imagine the harder edges of his leather couch make it a particularly comfortable experience, and he has to physically stop himself from shuffling over and letting Steve lean on him or something. For the time being, he leaves it alone.

The minutes slip rapidly through his fingers as he becomes engrossed, and when the movie finally ends after another hour or so, he blinks bleary eyes up at the warm lights that suddenly flicker to life. Even Bruce looks a little tired as he stretches his limbs out, and that man gets an abundance of sleep based almost solely on the fact that he can nod off just about anywhere — the minimal pros of being on the run for years. It’s just a little heartwarming to know that he feels safe enough at the tower to settle here, even if it’s only for a little while. 

That, of course, leads him to ponder when he’d become such a sappy, horribly sentimental person, only to be torn away from the train of thought by a low whine somewhere to his left. He looks over sharply, scrutinizing the expression that’s painted across Steve’s face as he begins to stir, his eyes hazy and lidded, falling shut every few moments before flickering open. 

Tony clears his throat, tentatively positioning himself so that he blocks Bruce’s view of Steve as much as possible. 

“Cap?” he tries, “you with us? Time to get up, buddy. If you’re gonna bunk over we should at least get you to one of the spare beds.” 

Steve blinks, a little uncomprehendingly, and Tony officially enters ‘oh god he might be little’ mode. Apparently cat-naps are enough to do that. 

He affects his usual manner of general indifference as he gets up, extending a hand toward Steve. “Come on. Up and at ‘em, big guy. I’m not gonna be the reason Captain America has a crick in his neck.”

“I’m fine,” he says, with surprising clarity. He takes Tony’s hand though, and after a few unsuccessful tries, allows himself to be hauled up to his feet. 

“There he is, ladies and gents. Mister ‘I’m fine.’ Come on, I’ll show you to the spare bedroom.” 

Bruce, who’s looking just about half-asleep himself, offers Steve a small smile and a “sleep well, Cap.” He doesn’t have the expression on his face that Tony usually associates with him piecing together the components of a puzzle, so he thinks he’s in the clear as he leads Steve down the hall and to the third door on the left. 

He lingers by the entryway where warm light floods out into the darkened hall, fiddling mindlessly with his watch. 

“Uh. There are spare toothbrushes and toothpaste in the ensuite. Bathroom’s pretty stocked in general. Think there might be some clothes in the wardrobe too.” 

Steve nods. “Thanks, Tony.” 

“Don’t mention it. There’s, uh. There’s some pull-ups in there. Just. Throwing that out there.”

Steve’s face is steadily growing a deep shade of red. He looks torn between the prospect of wearing a pull-up or the prospect of having to deal with an overnight accident. 

Physically, he has a few inches on Tony, sure, but his entire demeanor practically _screams_ little, from his hunched shoulders right down to the hands his has shoved in his pockets. The warm light that bathes the room softens his features just enough to make him seem. Well. _Small_. 

Tony has every intention of asking him whether he needs anything else, but the words that end up leaving his mouth are something like: “want me to stay for a bit?” because he knows if he asks Steve whether he _needs_ him to stay, then the answer would almost instantly be a no. 

Steve’s expression is twisted up with mortification and guilt and a decent dose of conflict, more than Tony has ever seen from him before. Usually, he’s the epitome of sure-footed, collected and calm and confident in both himself and his capabilities. Now, he just seems... _sad_ , eyebrows furrowed like he’s never been so unsure of anything. Even now his eyes dart furtively toward the doors and the windows, like he’s considering his tactical lines of retreat. Tony’s chest aches at the sight.

“I can’t,” Steve says finally, voice cracking around the edges.

And well, that’s definitely not an ‘I don’t want you to.’ More like a ‘my classification-related baggage and my several dozen complexes don’t exactly gel with that idea.’ 

“Who says that?” Tony asks, “because it definitely isn’t me, and I’m the only other person in this room right now. If it’s your brain telling you that, then I don’t think that’s anything you have to listen to, especially not if it’s just being mean. Brains are annoying and counterproductive sometimes, or so I’ve been told.” 

Steve considers this for several moments. There’s a tangled mess of emotions flashing across his face that Tony is having a hard time trying to parse. 

“I’ll just change,” Steve says, after a few beats of silence. 

Tony nods, trying hard not to look too pleased with the minor victory. He pulls out his phone as Steve sifts through the wardrobe for some clothes before making a beeline for the bathroom. 

When he wanders out into the bedroom a few minutes later, Tony doesn’t ask him whether he’s wearing a pull-up, he just tries to infuse his smile with as much encouraging warmth as possible. He shuts off the lights and flicks on the bedside lamp, which casts a faint orange glow along the walls. Not enough to be jarring, he hopes. 

Steve looks at a total loss of what to do for a good few seconds, but then he hesitantly pulls back the covers and climbs onto the bed, rustling the sheets a bit in the process. He settles down in the center of the large mattress, which only serves to make him look even _smaller_ , virtual swathes of empty space on either side of him. Tony moves almost without thinking, bringing the blankets up just underneath Steve’s chin. He wriggles and squirms a bit to get comfortable, blinking up at Tony with big eyes. Tony ensures that he’s adequately swaddled, pressing the blankets in along his sides and adjusting it in some places, just like Jarvis used to do with him. 

He feels an almost overwhelming urge to drop a kiss to Steve’s head, but that feels just a little too affectionate for two teammates.

“Need anything else—?” He _just_ catches himself before tacking on a ‘sweetheart’ at the end there.

Steve shakes his head. Tony swallows a few times before nodding. 

“Okay. Alright.” He inhales deeply, letting it out in a rush. “Sleep tight, Steve.” He gives the outline of his arm through the blanket an affectionate pat before making for the door, stopping dead in his tracks when he hears a small, unbearably soft ‘night, Tony’ in return. 

_Jesus Christ_. 

He wills down the fierce urge to turn right back around and coddle the kid to death, pointedly ignoring the fact that it physically hurts to close the door behind him.

~ 

Tony stays up until 2 am just in case JARVIS informs him that Steve may need someone there with him after all. 

Which, naturally, is how he comes to a few late-night revelations. 

“God,” he breathes, into the darkness of his room, “I’m kidding myself.” He shuts his tablet off, leaving only the pale light that seeps in beneath his door.

He doesn’t want to refer Steve to any of the specialist Caregivers he’s dug up over the past few weeks, because _he_ wants to be the one to look after him. It’s stupid, quite frankly. _Selfish_ , even. 

Of course, he’ll suggest them anyway, because the decision should be up to Steve, but...

He collapses back onto the bed with a groan.

“JARVIS, update?”

“Captain Rogers is still asleep, Sir. He is not experiencing any signs of distress.” 

Maybe he _should_ give that whole communication thing a try. It’s not like Steve can read his mind, after all, it’s not like he knows that Tony is interested in being his Caregiver. 

It’s the last thought he has before he falls into a fitful sleep.

~ 

As it turns out, he doesn’t get much of an opportunity to talk to Steve at _all_ over the next few days, let alone hold any sort of meaningful conversation with him. 

He’s gone before Tony wakes the following morning, he’s on radio silence both Saturday and Sunday due to a SHIELD mission. Then, when the Avengers are actually required to assemble for the first time since the Chitauri invasion, he’s so focused on the threat itself during the briefing that Tony resigns himself to some casual small talk. Afterward, Steve checks everyone over for injuries but himself, successfully dodging Fury and opting to get started on some field report back at his apartment. 

Tony honestly can’t tell whether he’s genuinely busy or if he’s just _trying_ to keep as busy as possible. He sort of wants to shake him and tell him that his classification isn’t going to magically go away if he ignores it, but then he remembers that the kid is a twenty-five-year-old WW2 veteran who’s probably just doing what’s familiar to him, in a world that’s totally foreign. 

So. He puts aside that part of him and sends Steve a text later that night, when the other Avengers have left for their respective houses and apartments. 

**_Tony:_ ** _Hey. Didn’t catch you after that debriefing — hope you’re doing alright._

There. Simple, friendly, just one teammate inquiring after another. Totally harmless. 

He sits through a video conference, takes a couple of business calls, and makes a start on his stealth suit, by which time JARVIS hasn’t informed him of a response, so Tony decides he’ll just regroup tomorrow, decide whether he should leave it for the time being, no matter how much he thinks this is all going to catch up to Steve in some way or another. 

The lights within his workshop have flickered to life now, as per the norm at this time of night, bathing everything in a warm sort of glow. It’s a nice point of contrast to the cold dreariness that permeates the air outside, kept at bay by the tower’s tightly-sealed windows. He’s just about to shut down his projects and call it a night when his phone lights up with an incoming call. 

A sigh escapes his lips as he puts aside a sheet of metal. “JARVIS, who is it? If it’s anyone from SI, divert it.” 

“It’s Captain Rogers, Sir.” 

Tony’s heart leaps into his throat. “Accept it,” he says unthinkingly, straightening. 

An audio waveform appears before him, lit up a pale blue.

“Stark.” 

Tony blinks. “Romanoff,” he returns in kind. “Why are you calling from Steve’s phone? I mean, not that I’m jumping to ‘you killed him and took it’ or anything—“

“I knew his passcode, but that’s not important. You need to get over here, I’m sending you my location.”

“Why?” he asks sharply, “is he alright?” 

She hesitates. “He’s fine. But he dropped a few minutes ago.” 

“Uh. Okay. Dropped, as in...?” 

“Dropped into headspace,” Natasha confirms, “he’s asking for you.” 

“Shit. Alright. Gimme like, ten minutes or something,” he says, as JARVIS flashes the location before him, some SHIELD base in Downtown Manhattan, which. He’s not going to ask questions about that just yet. “How’d you even know to call me?” he asks, as he looks around for the pair of spare shoes he keeps somewhere in the workshop.

“You’re listed as his emergency contact on his SHIELD file.” 

“Fuck. Don’t tell me you knew already.”

“I _didn’t_ know until about five minutes ago when he randomly burst into tears.” 

“Was he around other people?” 

“No, just me. I noticed something was wrong the moment he walked in.” 

“What are you guys even doing all the way over there?” 

“SHIELD meeting for our unit. Fury wanted somewhere away from headquarters.” 

“Of course he did. Because he knows exactly how to make things difficult for me. I’ll take a car over there, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Just get over here when you can, Stark. He’s in deep.” 

Tony sighs as he shoves a few blankets into the backseat of his car. “Roger that.” 

Well then. _This_ is going to be a fun, totally non-excruciating conversation when Steve is big again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen...Listen...next chapter...! :) that's all i have to say <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so...this is the longest chapter i've written for this fic thus far, but that really shouldn't be surprising at this stage, so all i can say is: buckle up!! 
> 
> trigger warnings: panic attacks, reference to canon-typical violence, internalized shame

_Marcus Howe: Full Offense._

That’s the name of the comedy special that’s splashed across Steve’s screen, the one he’s been watching so long his eyes are beginning to water. The shadows dancing all along his walls shrink away from the pale light that his phone emanates, and his hands tremble where he props the screen up. 

There’s a sort of twisted satisfaction in hearing some of his worst fears being thrown out into the open for laughs. He isn’t a stranger to laugh tracks, but the camera pans to the audience on occasion, and they seem to be getting a kick out of these jokes. Steve isn’t sure how much of this is staged. He isn’t even sure why he’s still watching, why he’s giving this guy the time of day when…

When these jokes aren’t funny, because not all Littles fit into these awful caricatures, but…

Steve shakes his head. He swallows through the tightness that’s settled in his throat, the shame that’s burning all along his ribcage. He stands up, tossing his phone onto the bed and approaching the corner where that brown paper bag sits, innocently dull. Tears spring to his eyes as he picks it up by its flimsy paper handle and grasps the closet door handle. It takes a bit of effort, but it creaks open with some resistance, scraping along the hardwood floor, and Steve stuffs the bag inside, bottom lip wobbling dangerously at the sorry sight of it, all alone in an empty closet. 

He remembers this closet, remembers it piled high with useless junk and spare parts, all because Bucky kept insisting he’d _‘get around to fixing up those gizmos good as new at some point.’_ He never did. Steve always teased him about it, always told him one day he’d open that closet door and there’d be an avalanche. 

Now, now there’s just a bag, with a blanket and a note inside, chipped white paint and lurking shadows. A ghost of anything it used to be. 

Except, it’s not a sorry sight at all, because _bags don’t get lonely,_ Steve tells himself pointedly, as he shuts the closet door with a bit more force than necessary, producing a loud thud. Bags don’t need to be personified, because he’s an adult, and adults know that bags don’t get lonely inside empty closets with flashes of memory woven into the very fabric of them, into every scrape of paint and every grease stain and every snatch of teasing laughter. 

Steve grits his teeth. He opens the door and closes it again for good measure, with a harsher bang echoing out this time. It only settles some of the frustration twisting itself up inside his chest, waiting for one spark to send everything exploding outwards in a catastrophic burst of flames. 

His eyes flutter shut. He takes a deep breath. Two, then three. He wills the tears away. Getting caught up in emotions like this isn’t productive. 

There are a couple of boxes stacked along the darkened walls of his room, containing a few of his limited belongings. Once his frustration recedes, shrinks back into the corners of his mind to be dealt with at a later point, Steve heads out into the living space, pausing by the note stuck to his fridge that reads: _phone the electrical company._ He nods to himself. He’ll do that in a couple of hours. 

One of those jokes flashes through his head, about Littles who can’t be trusted with basic tasks, about poor Little getting confused at the first adult word they see, who have to have their hand held by their partner while they try to make sense of any sort of legal or tax document.

Steve takes a deep breath and approaches the counter, fumblingly popping the lid off a marker and aggressively underlining the words on the note. Satisfied only when the bottom half of the paper is dripping with black ink, he replaces the marker and wanders into the sitting room. 

He stands there, and he looks out at the first hints of dawn, the threads of orange sunlight that seep in through his fabric curtains. He stands there, and he doesn’t think about that op Fury had mentioned busting, the transportation of pills that were supposed to suppress headspace in Littles. 

They’re illegal now, Steve supposes, rather than a prescribed treatment. 

Not that they would work on him. Not that he would take them even if they did work on him. 

He sits on the couch and he buries his face in his hands and he _doesn’t_ think about it. He picks up an abandoned field report and a pen, because he knows he shouldn’t be wallowing, especially when there’s work to be done.

_The targets located were…_

If he could go for several months between drops during the war and function just fine out on the battlefield, then who’s to say he couldn’t do that now? Who’s to say he couldn’t keep this smaller side of him locked up and contained within brief passages of time, only to be let out every other month or so? 

_First hostile was engaged at exactly..._

Weekly drops seem like an awful lot, especially taking into account the serum that flows through his veins. That’s at least one day where he’s incapacitated, completely out of play, and the days would most certainly build up the more weeks pass. 

_The flashdrive was recovered at approximately…_

That’s also one day a week where he’s completely vulnerable, terrifyingly suggestible and compromised and....a liability, for all intents and purposes. It’s not practical, or logistical, or even _safe_. He knows SHIELD kept his name out of the lease for that apartment, but he’s not quite sure he’ll ever feel entirely comfortable exposing himself like that. If he’d ever feel comfortable dropping alone. 

_The agents on stand-by were…_

Stark Tower has an extensive security system, sure, and Tony is one of the only people he’s felt comfortable being around while he’s small, sure, and Tony has that soft voice he slips into sometimes that makes Steve want to curl up inside it and lose himself entirely, _sure_ , but.

But obviously, he couldn’t. Because. Because, that sort of dependency, handing someone that sort of control, Steve’s not quite sure he can stomach the idea of it.

Even if. Even if he wants it so bad that he practically aches with it. 

His bottom lip trembles, and there’s a gradually tightening knot lodged inside his throat that’s becoming difficult to breathe around. There’s a heaviness on his shoulders that trickles through to his chest and pools there, a warm, aching feeling he doesn’t quite want to admit is longing. 

The pen in his hand snaps in half with a resounding crack, jagged plastic pressing into his skin as his ink-stained fingers enclose around it, smudge the writing of his report beyond recognition. Blotchy ink and messy fingerprints litter his cursive scrawl, like some abandoned abstract art piece. Steve carefully sets it aside and brings his knees up to his chest, no doubt leaving dark ink stains on the denim of his jeans.

He wouldn’t mind a hug right about now. 

A laugh track goes off inside his head, one nightmarish, humiliating loop.

~

The view across the East River is just a little more dazzling than it was back in Steve’s day, purely because there’s just so much _light_. The dark geometric outline of the cityscape, shiny chrome, reflective glass, and the muted colors that play over the shimmering surface of the water. It’s disturbed by gusts of harsh wind that distort the reflection of the city lights, and Steve is fixated for a moment, eyes darting rapidly back and forth to drink in as much as he possibly can. There’s a sort of beauty in it, even if he always did prefer the open spaces, or at least, the brief snatches he got of it — long summer afternoons at Coney Island, the percussive rhythm of foaming white waves, salty air sticking to his skin. Bucky’s laughter carried by the wind. 

There are things you have to sacrifice, sometimes, reluctantly yet willingly. Then there are things that are torn away before you have the good sense to really appreciate them for what they are, the things you spend a lifetime pining after.

“Uh, sir? We’re here.”

Steve blinks himself from his daze, an apologetic smile coming to his lips. “Sorry. Uh—” he rifles through his pocket, pulls out his wallet and extracts some cash. The cab driver eyes him disbelievingly as he hands it all over. He would’ve preferred to take the subway, but this meeting had been classed as _‘urgent’_ in Fury’s communications, so he’d decided against it.

“Keep the change,” he says, as he opens the door and clambers out of the back seat, exhaling slowly. His breath lingers in the air as mist, obscuring the East River for just a moment.

He can hear the cab driver thanking him profusely, but he just smiles, waves him off, and tells him to have a good night. The cab’s engine purrs as it pulls out onto the bustling street, swallowed up by all the swarming chaos. Steve had genuinely thought the traffic was bad in _his_ day, which seems like some sort of joke now as he looks out at the city lights, at the tangled web of streets that are overflowing with people. Lower Manhattan didn’t incur the brunt of the Chitauri invasion, he notes, taking in the minimal property destruction, the lack of scaffolding. But how many of these people would’ve died if they hadn’t found a way to close that portal?

Another deep breath, in then out. 

He’s alright. 

He’s okay. 

What matters is that they _had_ closed the portal, what matters is that they _had_ found a way. What-ifs at this stage are pointless. 

Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and approaches the building that towers above the others. Not exactly discreet, and certainly nothing like the bases he’s used to. He gets the impression that there’s a reason SHIELD isn’t advertising their association with it. Surely there have to be other places in Downtown New York that are a little more... _secluded_.

His phone vibrates with a text, and he narrowly dodges a group of people as he enters the lobby of the building, pulling it out from his pocket. It’s Natasha, inquiring after where he is, which has him letting out a huff as he taps out a response, informing her that Fury should consider meetings scheduled ahead of time, if he wants to be a stickler about people showing up on time. Steve exits out of the conversation, heart leaping into his throat at the text from Tony that greets him. He glances upward, barely keeping track of his surroundings as he makes his way toward the elevator. 

_Hey. Didn’t catch you after that debriefing — hope you’re doing alright._

He lets out a shuddery exhale. 

Tony doesn’t deserve all of the distant professionalism that Steve has been throwing his way over the past few days, doesn’t deserve the restrained tension that has colored every single one of their interactions since that night.

Maybe he isn’t okay. 

Maybe this is a bad idea. 

Maybe, maybe, he _does_ want that blanket he’d banished to the closet. 

His throat feels tight at the mere thought of it, and suddenly, he’s not sure if he can face this meeting, as much it pains him to admit it, because he _should_ be able to face it. But. But there are tears stinging at his eyes and his chest is beginning to shudder with the sobs he’s barely repressing, barely keeping at bay. 

When did this elevator get so _big?_

He can make out his translucent reflection in the gleaming surface of the walls that enclose him, can see the wide, tear-brimmed eyes that stare back at him, the arms that have wound incriminatingly around his midsection. Then, the elevator comes to a stop, and Steve scrambles to right himself, to set his shoulders straight and affect an air of control. 

The corridor is empty at this time of night, luckily enough. That gives him time to swipe furiously at his eyes and even out his posture. His shadow moves rapidly along the adjacent wall, standing out in sharp relief against the pale light that floods inside. The meeting room is standard, in line with what Steve has slowly grown used to in this day and age, with the SHIELD agents that sit at a rectangular table and the holographic projection that takes center stage. He doesn’t have to clear his throat to announce his presence, not when the room is brimming with paranoid agents who remain almost acutely aware of their surroundings at all times. 

Natasha’s gaze sharpens upon landing on him, and she inclines her head a little as Steve enters. He’s overly conscious of the way he holds himself as he takes the seat beside her, which he prays to god isn’t apparent in his movements. Natasha looks over at him, curiously intent, and Steve tries not to give her an inch, just offers her a mild smile that definitely wavers despite his best efforts. 

Tony’s text flashes through his mind as Fury briefly plays catch up, sliding a briefing packet across the table that Steve quickly leafs through. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to concentrate, but he ends up reading and re-reading the same passages over and over, the words blending into one another, just barely escaping his comprehension. He tries to shake himself out of it, tries to ward off the anxious knot that’s building inside his gut.

He knows these words. Knows what they mean. So why can’t he string them together? Why isn’t anything making sense? 

He has to blink back frustrated tears when slowing his reading pace doesn’t prove fruitful, either. It’s all just so… _big_ , so, so _adult_ , and. 

Steve’s hands clench around the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t quite realize the iron-grip he has until a smaller, cooler hand runs along the backs of his own, prompting him to loosen his grip until the achiness in his knuckles recedes. He sends Natasha a furtive glance, but she isn’t looking at him, she’s looking at Fury, who she seems to be exchanging a silent conversation with as he talks, not once tripping up or stuttering or stopping. Not even when his calculating eyes sweep over Steve, not even when he nods minutely, which has Natasha swiveling in her seat to face him.

“We’re going,” she says simply.

Steve blinks. “Where to?” 

She offers him a beatific smile as she stands up from her chair. “You’re going to show me to the bathroom. I forgot where it is.” 

Dazed, Steve allows himself to be tugged up from his seat with a firm grip that possesses a surprising amount of strength. 

He thinks telling her that he has no idea where the bathroom is would be counterproductive. 

Natasha executes a quick, if somewhat complicated, spin that brings her right into Steve’s side, guiding his hand around her shoulders. He sends a discreet glance back toward the room. The only person who’s taken any interest in their proceedings is Rumlow, but that seems to be a mild curiosity more than anything.

She leads him to an office at the opposite end of the corridor that has glass walls and a cherry-red couch, with a rounded sort of design that Steve is rapidly becoming desensitized to. Shadows play along the glass as cars race by outside. 

He folds his arms over his chest. He wishes it weren’t so dark. 

Natasha extricates herself and spins to face him. Steve feels oddly like a cornered animal with his back pressed up against the frosted glass behind him. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, without preamble. 

Steve really means to say _‘nothing.’_ He means to say _‘I’m fine.’_ But then, he thinks of Tony’s text, and the blanket he’d shoved inside his closet, and suddenly the stress and the confusion and the _guilt_ of the past few days is crashing down over him like an all-consuming tidal wave, tangling together inside his chest and rushing to the surface all at once, in the for of heaving sobs. Any semblance of composure or _adult-ness_ he previously possessed slips right through his fingers, the same fingers he presses into his closed eyes, to try and stop the tears before they can trace lines into his skin. Blotchy patches of color dance along the insides of his eyelids the harder he presses. 

His field of vision is blurred as he reopens his eyes, but when Natasha swims into view he can make out the open shock on her face. She blinks, then opens her mouth, then blinks again.

“Steve?” she questions lowly, raising an arm to grip firmly onto his shoulder, “what’s wrong? Work with me, what do you need?” 

Steve hears a pitiful whimper, and knowing it came from him just serves to tighten the misery inside his throat, makes the tears spring forth faster. 

This building is so big. This _room_ is so big. He wants—he wants to be home, he wants—

“T-T-T-“ he can barely get a word out between his gasping breaths, chest heaving rapidly to keep up. 

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow, and her gaze is scrutinizing as she takes him in for a moment, eyes sweeping from head to toe. Then, her expression smooths out with shock once more, lashes fluttering as she blinks. Her grip on his arm gentles, lowers down to his wrist. “Steve, you need to calm down or else you’re gonna make yourself sick. Come sit with me, alright?” 

He tries to get out an affirmative, but the sobs rattling through his chest and the shuddery breaths escaping his parted lips make that virtually impossible. Natasha leads him over to the couch with a loose grip on his wrist, sitting him down before taking a seat of her own beside him. 

“Deep breaths, come on, you can do it,” she coaxes, voice uncharacteristically soft as she brings one of his hands up to her chest. Steve tries desperately to match her breathing, but he’s still left gasping for air. 

“That’s alright,” she soothes, “come on, let’s try again, Steve, in then out.” 

Steve follows her exaggerated breaths as best he can for a few minutes until his gasps begin to even out and he’s able to take in deep gulps of air. He feels unfathomably lightheaded, like someone has taken his brain and replaced it with a large wad of cotton. He brings a hand up to his chest, and it’s almost as though the signals between his brain and his limbs have been delayed somehow, making even minor movements seem sluggish. 

Everything is just _hard_. _Far_ harder than usual. 

“There we go, that’s better,” Natasha says, setting a cool palm on the small of Steve’s back, “who can I call, kotenok? Fury won’t let you out on an op like this. You’re too little.” 

Steve’s bottom lip wobbles. “‘M big.” 

Natasha arches an eyebrow and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “Big? I don’t think so. If you don’t pass a headspace check, then you’re little to SHIELD. That’s all that matters.” 

He thinks really hard about his next words, about getting them right. 

“I...I does it.” 

Steve gets another raised eyebrow for his efforts. 

“Gonna have to do better than that if you wanna convince them.” She taps away at her phone for a moment. “Says here your emergency contact is,” she blinks, perplexed, “Stark. Is that right?” 

Every thought he has about passing that headspace check comes to a screeching halt. Tony’s gentle smiles flash through his head, the soft timbre of his voice sometimes when he talks to Steve, and. And suddenly there’s nothing he wants more. 

“Tony,” he says, nodding rapidly, “want Tony.” Tears well in his eyes once more. “Tony here?” 

Natasha lets out an even breath. “No, he’s not here, but I’m gonna call him, alright? Make sure he gets here soon. You’re gonna have to be super brave until he comes. Think you can do that?” 

Steve’s next breath shudders a little, but he nods, squirming toward the arm of the couch and wedging himself into the corner, knees brought up to his chest. His thumb ends up in his mouth, silent tears tracing their way down his cheeks as he rocks back and forth. 

He wishes Tony were here. Maybe Tony is angry at him for not being very nice, for trying to avoid him. Maybe Tony won’t want to come see him. He curls further in on himself at the thought. 

Natasha pipes up somewhere to his left. “Is it alright if I use your phone?” she asks, “he’s more likely to pick up your call.”

Steve offers her a quick little nod as he stares into the middle-distance, sucking on his thumb. He’s good at being quiet when he has to be. Sometimes, sometimes when he was little, he would have to hide while Bucky kept guard. But Bucky isn’t keeping guard right now. Bucky isn’t here. 

Natasha paces back and forth, Steve’s phone pressed to her ear. Silence falls for a moment. Then—

“Stark.” 

Steve lets the conversation fade to the edges of his awareness and focuses his attention toward the window. He wishes there were stars in the sky. All he sees are buildings, and cars, and lots of lights, and a river if he cranes his head enough, with shimmery water that looks almost silver in some places, reflecting a distorted moon. The moon looks... _wiggly_ , in the lapping water. He smiles. Then, he feels the smile fall from his face. Maybe the moon gets lonely sometimes, without any stars in the sky. Just like he does.

“Just get over here when you can, Stark. He’s in deep.”

He sucks a little more adamantly on his thumb as Natasha makes her way over, taking a seat beside him on the couch. He peers up at her and blinks. 

“Tony?”

“He’s on his way,” she confirms. 

Steve considers this for a beat. “Want Tony,” he says mournfully. 

“I know you do, but he’ll be here soon, I promise. For now, I think we might need to get you changed into a diaper, hm?” 

He shakes his head rapidly at those words, hugging himself closely. 

“Is that a ‘no, I don’t need it’ or a ‘no, not until Tony gets here?’” 

“Tony,” he says, lips turning down into a frown. 

Natasha sighs again, but she runs a soothing hand up and down his back, which is nice. “I know you want Tony, but you’re gonna have to work with me, kotenok. We don’t want any accidents, especially not in this office.” 

Steve turns to press his warm face into the couch cushions. He really doesn’t want anyone to see him in a diaper. He doesn’t want anyone to see him at _all_. 

“What about if I called him again? Would that help?” Natasha asks, clearly getting the sense that this is a losing battle. 

“See Tony?” 

“Well,” she hedges, “you’ll be able to talk to him.”

Steve nods. “Talk.” 

She picks up Steve’s phone once again, tapping away for a moment before holding it out between them. Steve removes his thumb from his mouth, squirming in his seat as he waits. There’s a funny buzzing sound, then, Tony’s voice sounds through the speaker, a little distorted, but undoubtedly him.

“This better be good, Agent. Currently doing forty in a thirty zone while hopped up on coffee. Wait, is Steve listening to this? Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Tony!” Steve bursts out, pressing in as close as he can to the phone, just to make sure he hears. 

“Steve! Wow. Did I say forty? I meant thirty. I’m doing thirty in a thirty zone. Who would’ve thought, right? Silly me, getting numbers mixed up like that. Oh, and I’m drinking tea, actually. Green, no sugar.” 

An amused smile tugs at Natasha’s lips. “He won’t let me get him into a diaper until you get here.” 

“Kiddo, you don’t have to — yeah, great cut-off, buddy! — do anything you don’t want to do, but I can tell you right now, wearing a diaper totally beats having an accident. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but for the time being, I need you to be good for Miss Wi—Natasha.” 

Steve nods, a little teary now. “Miss Tony.” 

Tony’s voice audibly softens. “I miss you too, kid. Just sit tight a little while longer, alright? I got about a quarter of an hour. Think you can be brave for me?” 

“I be bwave,” he confirms, sniffling, “n’...n’ good for, for, for Miss Tasha.” 

“Miss Tasha,” Tony mumbles to himself, “god, that’s cute. Alright. I have to go now, for reasons entirely unrelated to the laws I’m definitely not breaking. But I’ll see you soon, bud.” 

“Bye-bye,” Steve says quietly, directing big eyes up at Natasha. She ends the call and places the phone down, the smile still lingering on her mouth. 

“Miss Tasha, huh? I don’t mind that. Has a ring to it.” She stands up, offering Steve a hand. “How about that diaper now, hm? That way you’ll be all ready when Tony’s here. Aaaand, there might be a leftover cookie in my bag, if you’re _really_ good.” 

Steve’s eyes widen. “I be weally good,” he says, as he takes her hand and allows himself to be hauled to his feet.

Natasha is really smart, and she knows how to avoid people. Steve isn’t entirely sure why she has a diaper bag in her backpack, but he doesn’t think about it all that much, just holds tight and allows himself to be guided toward the Little restroom. There’s a changing table in the corner that just barely fits him, and she’s super quick about getting him out of his jeans and into a diaper, with some cream that’s very cold.

“Thank god you’re not into skinny jeans,” she murmurs, as she brings the hem of his jeans back up to sit snugly on his waist. Steve doesn’t quite know what that means, so he stays silent. 

In the mirror, he can see that the crinkly outline of his diaper is very much visible through his jeans, which makes him blush and try to hide his face away. 

Natasha soothes him with a gentle pat down his side. “It’s alright, Steve. No one’s gonna see. Just me, I promise.” 

Steve peeks up at her through his fingers. The smile on her face is kind, no traces of mocking amusement to be found. He gives a tentative nod and sits up on the changing table, stumbling a little once his feet touch the ground. Natasha steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Alright. Time to wash our hands, then we’ll see about that cookie, huh?” 

A smile breaks out on his face as he hums in agreement. Natasha guides him over to the sink and helps him get his hands lathered up with soap, which is nice, because Steve’s not sure if he trusts himself. 

The diaper is absolutely worth the giant double-chocolate chip cookie that Natasha splits between them, except. Except...

He stares down at the cookie in his hand for a moment, before looking back up at her with wide eyes. 

“Need me to break it up for you, kotenok?” she asks, and Steve feels his face warm as he gives a tentative nod. 

“Alright. I’ll do it over that bin in the corner, so I don’t get crumbs all over the place.” 

She holds her half of the cookie between her teeth as he breaks up Steve’s half into smaller chunks, crumbs cascading down into the small office bin below. Steve lets out a small noise of delight when she turns and carefully places the cookie chunks into his awaiting palms.

“‘Ank you,” he says quietly, because his Ma always told him manners are important. 

Natasha smiles, rubbing her hands together to get rid of any stray crumbs before ruffling his hair. “Polite boy. You’re welcome.” 

They sit together on the cherry-red couch while they eat their respective halves of the cookie. Natasha eventually pulls out her phone and introduces him to a coloring app that she has, which is lots of fun, even if Steve gets restless pretty quickly — his jeans are itchy enough to be uncomfortable when paired with a diaper. But, it’s still nice, leaning into Natasha’s side and tapping out where he wants certain colors to go on the picture of a cat he’s filling in. Steve prefers actual coloring, though, because then, he can make all of the pictures himself, and fill in all the lines himself too. 

It’s another fifteen minutes before a text from an unknown number appears at the top of Natasha’s screen.

“How did he get my number?” she murmurs, as she taps the notification, eyes scanning over the text. 

“Tony?” Steve asks, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. 

Natasha hums an affirmative, standing up from the couch. “He’s outside. But you’re gonna have to follow my lead, alright?” 

Steve nods, helping out as much as he can while she gets him rugged up his coat. It’s a thick coat, with fabric that feels a little coarse on the outside, but very soft on the inside. Natasha steps back and scrutinizes him for a moment, which has Steve flushing crimson and wrapping his arms around himself. He’s not sure what she’s looking for, but she must find it, because she gives a quick nod of approval before slinging her backpack over her shoulder and offering him a hand. 

His grip on her hand tightens anxiously once they take the elevator down to the main lobby, eyes darting rapidly back and forth for any signs of people. It’s totally dark, not a sign of anyone even near reception, and the city lights cast an eerie sort of glow where they dance along the gleaming tiles, car lights illuminating the room in brief flashes. Natasha sends him one final glance before they step out through the glass doors and into the frigid late November air. She makes quick work of leading him to a discreet car with dark, tinted windows that make Steve’s insides squirm a bit with apprehension. 

The upholstery within the car is all smooth, dark leather, but Steve barely registers the cold that seeps in through his jeans once his eyes land on Tony, who offers him a warm smile from the driver’s seat. The sight of that smile alone has Steve’s previously shifting headspace settling a little, leaning further into his smaller mindset.

“Tony!” Steve gasps, which earns him a chuckle, amused but nowhere near mocking. 

“Hey, kid. I’ll be back there with you in a sec, alright?” 

Steve nods, quick and earnest, as Natasha opens the passenger side door. 

“Agent Romanoff,” Tony greets, “on a scale of one to ten, how much would Fury want my hide if you weren’t there on that top-secret mission or op or whatever it is SHIELD agents like to discuss at ungodly hours?” 

“Hm. I’d say at least a six,” she answers, a small smile twitching on her face.

“Hey, look, I can work with a six. If you’d said seven, maybe, I’d have a reservation or two. Think you know the way back to Stark Tower by any chance?” 

“With a car like this? Sure.” She pauses here, a certain hardness sharpening her expression, “I have a few loose ends to tie up inside. Give me five minutes.”

An understanding seems to pass between them that Steve can’t for the life of him decipher. 

“Copy that.” 

Natasha closes the car door with a dull thud while Tony opens his, and Steve doesn’t even get half a second to feel anxious before the car door to the back seat is opening. Tony steps inside gracefully, exhaling as he pulls the door shut. His friendly expression flickers for a moment, allowing sheer relief to press through at the seams as brown eyes begin to scan Steve’s face. The guilt that sits in Steve’s chest like a deadweight suddenly feels like too much, like it must just overwhelm him, and Steve has no idea what to do with it.

A sudden onslaught of tears sting at his eyes as he curls up into the corner of the car, the hard edges of the door pressing into his back painfully. 

“Hey, hey, Steve, what’s wrong?” Tony asks, looking a little frenzied, relief cleared out to make way for an almost restrained concern, which just makes Steve feel _worse_ , because now Tony feels bad about being _worried._

“I-I’m sowwy-y,” he manages through gasping breaths, and Tony shakes his head, looking utterly perplexed.

“What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry about.” His hands twitch toward Steve, before settling on his lap again, and Steve hiccups through another bout of harsh sobs. There’s a headache beginning to build somewhere behind his eyes, the intensity of it ratcheting up with every cry that clambers its way up Steve’s threat.

“I-I me-mean T-Tony,” he gasps out, lips turned down into a frown, because that’s not that he meant, but he doesn’t have the words, doesn’t know how to— he just needs Tony to know that—

“You mean me?” Tony asks, looking no less baffled. He turns the words over in his head for a moment, surprise breaking out on his face. “You were mean...to me? Kiddo, you weren’t mean. When were you mean?” 

Steve just shakes his head frantically, blind panic tying his stomach into knots. That’s not what he _means_. 

“I, I, I sowwy,” he says again, breaths still shaking violently on every inhale. He wants to cuddle up to Tony, but he doesn’t deserve it, especially if Tony is hesitant to even make _contact_ with him. 

A sigh escapes Tony’s lips that sounds somewhere between pained and exasperated. 

“Oh, kid. Come on, get in here,” he says, holding his arms out wide. 

Steve resists for all of about two seconds before climbing across the backseat in a flurry of miserable whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and collapsing into the circle of Tony’s arms. Silence falls over them for a lingering minute or two, broken only by Steve’s shuddering sobs and Tony’s occasional whispered words of comfort, filled with a quiet warmth that wraps tight and reassuring around Steve’s heart. Tony smooths his hands up and down his back, a steady, predictable pattern that has Steve melting further into the embrace. 

Steve reluctantly pulls away after several minutes, lashes fluttering as Tony uses the sleeve of his shirt to blot gently at the tears wetting his cheeks. 

“Alright. Think we hugged that one out pretty well, wouldn’t you say? I mean. As far as hugs go, that was pretty good.”

He blinks, and Tony’s smile broadens just a fraction before fading. “Still not sure what you’re trying to apologize for, but obviously it’s gotta be upsetting you. Maybe something we can talk about later, huh? ‘Cause right now I’m not sure you’re big enough for any. Well. Hard-hitting conversations.” He laughs, quick and nervous and a little self-deprecating, “plus, I’m not so good with this whole ‘emotions’ business unless I got like, at least a few hours ahead of time to, uh. _Prepare myself._ Mentally. So! I think, we should get you home, nice and cozy in a bed, then we can go from there. How about that?” 

Steve blinks again, but gets the idea that he should probably nod, so he does. Another gentle smile comes to Tony’s lips, one that warms Steve from the inside out, makes him feel...makes him feel _small_ , but not necessarily in a bad way, more in a benign sort of way. He goes to bring his thumb up to his mouth, but Tony gently intercepts his hand.

“Wait, wait, don’t suck on your thumb, kid, I got something here. _Way_ better, I promise you.” 

He rifles around in the backseat compartment for a moment before withdrawing a packaged pacifier. “See? Right here. Grabbed the first one I saw, got a few weird looks for it, but it can’t be tha—“ his eyes land on the package, and his mouth instantly twists into a grimace. “Oh god. Alright. It’s a minion.” He inhales deeply as he tears the package open, “look, I’m sorry in advance for this, alright? I am going to buy you, _so_ many pacifiers to make up for this one, it’s not even funny. If—if you’re alright with that, obviously.” 

Steve squirms restlessly in his seat, eyes flicking between Tony and the pacifier. He gets a very general gist of what Tony’s saying, but words are _hard_.

“Right. Guess that’s another thing to discuss later,” Tony says, as he offers him the yellow pacifier. 

Steve accepts it with a hesitant glance up at Tony’s face and slips it into his mouth, sucking adamantly on the plastic nub. The steady motion of it is enough to loosen some of the tension that’s gathered inside him.

Tony smiles. “You know, how you can make a minion pacifier look cute is totally beyond me.”

Steve twists his hands together on his lap and kicks his legs a little uncertainly, swinging them back and forth as best he can with the limited maneuverability he has in the backseat. He looks over when Tony lets out a heaving sigh. 

“Alright. Sorry, kiddo. You’re forcing my hand here.” 

He makes a questioning sound through the pacifier when Tony shuffles closer along the leather seat, rolling his long sleeves up a bit.

“You haven’t smiled _once_ since you first got in this car. As the resident adult in this situation, I think it’s my legal responsibility to turn to more drastic measures. No, really, look it up, definitely sure there’s something in the constitution that says ‘kids who need cheering up should get tickles’, right J?” 

JARVIS pipes up from somewhere toward the front of the car, sounding amused. “I cannot in good faith confirm that assessment to be true, Sir.”

“Yeah, well. True enough.” 

Steve feels his eyes widen a little in realization as Tony nears, and he lets out a squeak as he shuffles backward, lips already twitching up into a smile. 

“See? Magic! It’s working already,” Tony says, eyes gleaming with playfulness as he goes in for the kill, tickling steadily along Steve’s sides. 

Steve immediately bursts into giggles, batting half-heartedly at Tony’s hands as he curls in on himself. His pacifier tumbles from his mouth, but Tony just catches it with one hand and easily keeps up the tickling with his other.

“I—I happy!” Steve insists, giggling, which has Tony’s smile taking on a fond edge as he backs off. 

“Oh, you’re happy? That’s good. My drastic measures obviously worked, then.” 

A few residual giggles escape Steve’s mouth as he shuffles toward Tony, snuggling into his side. Tony offers him the pacifier, and Steve is more than happy when he takes his puppy eyes and parted lips as a cue, popping it in for him. He takes a moment to brush Steve’s hair back from his forehead before winding an arm around him and drawing him in close, until Steve can feel the warmth that Tony radiates pressed all along his side.

“So, did you — hey, what’s that smudge you got there?” 

Tony seems fixated on a point just under Steve’s jaw as he brings his sleeve up to wipe the supposed smudge away. It takes Steve a moment or two to process the words before a bashful smile breaks out on his face.

“Cookie,” he says. 

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Sugar before bedtime?” he tuts, “did Romanoff give you that?” 

As if on cue, the driver’s seat door opens, revealing a slightly-winded Natasha. “Done,” she says.

Tony sends Steve a sidelong glance. “Oh, you mean those loose ends that you tied up by totally legal means? Great. I’m glad. Also, what’s this I hear about you giving a certain someone a cookie?” 

Natasha offers him a perfectly schooled expression of innocence in the rearview mirror. “He was good.” 

“Right. No, really, it’s fine. I see how it is. You’re obviously not the one that has to put him to bed, so…” he trails off upon noticing the look that Steve is directing up at him through his lashes. Steve tightens his arms around Tony’s waist, too, resting his chin on Tony’s chest.

“Guess one cookie every now and again never hurt anyone,” he hedges, tapping Steve’s nose and smiling when Steve scrunches his shoulders up with a giggle, “sure it’s got. Fiber or something in there somewhere.” 

“Doubt it,” Nat chimes in, amused. 

“I’ll make him a smoothie tomorrow morning. There. _Man_ , I am so responsible. Wow.” 

Steve scrunches his nose at that, which earns him a bright laugh. “Hey now, don’t give me that look. It’ll be good, I swear. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time. When it comes to smoothies, anyway. Plus, I’ll even keep the spinach out of it.” 

He considers this for several moments before settling back into Tony’s side, latching onto his arm with a deep yawn that nearly has the pacifier tumbling from his mouth again. Tony runs a warm palm up and down his arm before reaching over toward the other side of the backseat. Steve lets out an anxious whine at the shift, but Tony just shushes him gently, holding up a fuzzy pink blanket for him to see. He watches, still clinging anxiously onto Tony’s sleeve, as the blanket is draped over his lap. 

Tony leans over him with the arm that’s not trapped and buckles Steve up, offering him a small smile once he’s done. Steve hesitates for a beat, then, he reaches out and runs a hand along the soft fabric of the blanket, letting out a small noise of content that’s muffled by his pacifier. He draws the blanket up to his shoulders and shifts onto his side so that he can properly snuggle in, never loosening his grip on Tony’s sleeve. 

Once Tony buckles his own seatbelt, he’s free to run gentle fingers through Steve’s hair, straying occasionally down to pet along Steve’s arm. Steve melts into the contact with a sigh and noses into Tony’s side. 

“Tired?” Tony murmurs. 

Steve nods. All of that crying is starting to catch up to him now — his throat is raw and the exhaustion that’s settled over him feels almost bone-deep, weighing him down from the inside. 

“Alright. You can sleep, kiddo. I’m not going anywhere.”

He means to say something in response, but he can’t summon the energy, so he just mumbles incoherently into Tony’s shoulder and presses in closer. His eyes flutter shut, and he falls into a mostly peaceful sleep. By his standards, that’s a pretty significant feat. 

~ 

Steve is startled into consciousness by a hand on his shoulder, bleary eyes squinting as Tony swims into view. Upon realizing that Tony is trying to coax him out of the car, he lets out a whine and closes his eyes again, grip tightening on the arm he currently has in his grasp. He hears a huff somewhere above him.

“Man. You are _not_ a morning person, are you?” 

“It’s midnight,” Nat deadpans.

“Yeah, well, same difference. Also, that just means this little guy right here is up _way_ past his bedtime. Seriously, if Jarvis were here I think he’d cry. Which is whyyy,” he gently nudges Steve with his shoulder, “you’re gonna be super good for me and move, right?” 

Steve does _not_ want to move. He’s warm and sleepy and comfortable, and Tony might let go of him if he moves, which is a thought that has him snuggling in closer, because if Tony leaves him, he’s not sure what he’d do. 

Tony inhales deeply. “If you think about it, this is _both_ of our faults for bribing him with sugar.” 

“It was _one_ cookie.” 

“Yeah, and I thought it was just _one_ lollipop. Look where that got us.” 

He tries to gently pry Steve’s fingers from his arm, which just prompts Steve to direct a pair of miserable, teary eyes up at him, bottom lip wobbling. Tony mumbles something under his breath and stops short in his efforts, most of which had been fruitless anyhow. 

“Come on, kid, it’s late and I think we could all do with some shut-eye. Work with me here.” 

At Tony’s firmer tone Steve looks up, panic tightening in his throat. He blinks rapidly, and Tony’s expression softens around the edges.

“Hey, Steve, I’m not mad, alright? Just need you to cooperate a bit, so we can get you into bed. It’ll be _way_ better sleeping on something soft than it will be sleeping here, trust me.” 

There’s still a somewhat strained quality to Tony’s voice that has Steve recoiling away, hazy eyes brimming with tears as his breaths begin to shudder in his chest. Tony won’t want to stay if he’s mad at him. Nothing is keeping him here with Steve apart from a misguided sense of obligation due to their professional relationship and their brewing friendship off-field. 

Steve’s panic seems to be mirrored on Tony’s face for a moment before he schools his expression, reaching a hand out toward Steve that he easily dodges by curling in further on himself, tears spilling out onto his cheeks. 

“Hey, hey, kid, kiddo, it’s alright, it’s okay,” he soothes, “I swear I’m not mad. I just think you could do with some sleep, huh? You must be tired.” 

“Sowwy-y,” he sniffles, voice thick, before breaking out into more loud, uncontrollable sobs, that almost seem to shake the car with their intensity. 

“That’s okay, _hey_ , that’s alright, I get it, you’re tired, right? I don’t wanna move when I’m tired either. But if we’re gonna get you somewhere more comfortable, then you’re gonna have to help me out, because as much as I’d like to I can’t exactly carry you to the elevator. Think you can do that? For me?” 

Steve hesitates at those words, sobs tapering off just a little as he concentrates on taking in Tony’s expression. His mouth is twisted into a bit of a wince, like he’s unsure whether he’d said the right thing or not, but his eyes are kind, and his demeanor isn’t closed off at all. Steve gives a tentative nod that visibly loosens some of the tension in Tony’s shoulders. 

“Great. Alright. I know things are a little up in the air right now, right? I mean. We definitely got some, some _things_ to talk about, once you’re feeling bigger. But I promise you that until then, I’m not leaving, kiddo.” He pauses here, looking torn between reaching out again and staying put. “And once we get you to a bed, maybe I’ll show you some more photos from the cat shelter, hm? Keep you up a tiny bit later just this once? Pep’s got the ball rolling on adoption forms for Rosie. Remember that one? Calico kitty Hap and I picked up?” 

Steve nods eagerly, slowly extracting himself from the corner he’d wedged himself into. “Wosie likes hugs.” 

Tony smiles. “That’s right. I can tell you about her if you want. On our way to the elevator, how about that?” 

Steve nods again, giving him a tiny smile in return. Tony offers him his pacifier, visibly relieved when he takes it and pops it into his mouth. 

Tony helps him unbuckle his seatbelt and it’s not all that long before they’re exiting the car, which locks behind them with an audible click. Natasha stands by a cement pillar not far from the car, right where the darkness obscures some of her form from view. She approaches somewhat cautiously, offering them a smile. Steve hadn’t even realized she’d left the car. 

“Meltdown averted?” she asks, as they begin to cross the underground parking lot, Steve gripping tightly onto Tony’s hand. 

Tony ruffles Steve’s hair. “Just a few tears. We’re alright, aren’t we?” 

Steve nods, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet and pulling his best possible puppy eyes. Tony chuckles.

“Right, right. Rosie. Guess it’s been a while since you got an update, huh?” 

It _has_ been a while. Like, two _years_ , Steve thinks. But he’s more than happy to listen as Tony explains that Pepper held off for all of about two weeks before looking into adoption, and that Tony and Rhodey have already been dubbed honorary babysitters, which means that _Steve might get to see Rosie_. Tony must sense his buzzing excitement, because he gives him an amused smile as they enter the elevator.

“Sure I’ll get at least a hundred photos within the first hour of Rosie being at Pep’s apartment. Payback for all the pictures of DUM-E I’ve sent her, probably. The _best_ kind of payback, actually, now that I think about it.

Steve happily imagines having a cat to cuddle one day as the elevator rises, coming to a mechanical halt once they reach Tony’s floor. It’s just as big and shiny as the last time Steve saw it, except this time he’s holding onto Tony’s hand, which makes him feel a lot better. 

The lights come on, flooding the living space, and Steve jolts when JARVIS’ robotic voice pipes up, greeting the three of them. He blinks up at the ceiling for several moments before pressing further into Tony’s side, fingers twisting up in the fabric of his shirt. 

Tony gives his side a reassuring pat. “It’s alright. Just JARVIS, remember? The good kind of AI, not the world-enslaving kind.” 

Natasha arches an eyebrow. 

“Uh. Not that there are any world-enslaving AI’s out there, of course. Figure of speech, that’s all.” 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young Captain,” JARVIS intones. 

Steve relaxes, but only a little bit. He removes his pacifier. “Hi,” he returns tentatively, before directing his gaze toward Tony, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “JARVIS trapped?” 

Tony’s eyes shift from Steve’s face to someplace in the middle distance, clearly processing. Then, a wide grin breaks out on his face, and he raises a hand to his mouth to muffle his bright cackles. Natasha looks amused, too, even when Steve frowns. Why is JARVIS being trapped in the ceiling funny? 

“Oh my god. That’s precious.” Tony inhales deeply, visibly fighting his smile. “JARVIS, inform the good Captain that you aren’t in any immediate need of rescue, will you?” 

“I assure you that I am, in fact, not trapped, young Captain. I am an AI that is interfaced with Stark Tower’s systems. I do not possess a corporeal — physical — form. Although I wholeheartedly appreciate the concern, I am in no immediate danger.” 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to parse the tone of JARVIS’ voice, despite its monotony. He thinks, if Tony is smiling the way he is, then JARVIS is okay. 

He hopes, anyway. 

“Alright, let’s see about that bed now, shall we?” Tony says, coaxing Steve toward the darkened hallway with a steady palm on the small of his back. Steve goes willingly, following Tony’s lead. He looks over his shoulder, watching a little mournfully as Natasha heads into the living room, chatting with JARVIS. 

They reach a door further down the hall that Tony gently shoulders open, fumbling around for the light switch before he finds it. 

Steve recognizes the room, as well as the wardrobe that Tony approaches, rifling through compartments for a moment before withdrawing a plain shirt and laying it out on the deep blue bed covers.

“This is one of my bigger ones, so it should do the trick. Pants might be a little more difficult, with the diaper and all,” he says, mostly to himself, but Steve feels his face warm at the mention of his diaper. It’s the first time he’s worn protection that isn’t a pull-up, and it’s a little puffier than what he’s used to, a little more padded. He suddenly feels almost acutely aware of it, of the outline it creates through his jeans. 

“If I may, Sir,” JARVIS chimes in, “I believe there may still be a set of... _novelty_ pajama pants in storage that you bought in entirely the wrong size whilst intoxicated.”

Tony’s expression clouds a bit with confusion before clearing right up again. “Yeah. The Iron Man ones, right? _Still_ not sure why you didn’t correct my sizing, just for the record,” he says. 

“You were rather insistent that I didn’t, Sir. I believe you tried to inform me several times that you knew exactly what Colonel Rhodes’ size was, and that there was no reason for me to get involved.” 

“All I’m hearing right now are excuses, J,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “also, I _totally_ know Rhodey’s size. I just got a little confused, that’s all. But guess what? He got the Iron Man pajama pants and he lived happily ever after. Sure his quality of life improved drastically and everything.” He turns his attention to Steve, offering him a smile. “Think you’ll be alright here while I find those pants? It’ll only be like two minutes tops, I swear.” 

Steve doesn’t really like the idea of Tony leaving, but he also doesn’t like the idea of sleeping in just a diaper and a shirt, so he nods reluctantly, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“JARVIS, could you project a few of those cat shelter photos Pepper sent last week?” 

“Of course, Sir.” 

A projection appears on the wall, and Steve can barely contain a bright smile at the sight of two calico cats with almost identically patterned fur. Tony gives his shoulder a fond pat as he crosses the room, pausing by the entryway.

“Sit tight, kiddo. I’ll be right back.” 

Steve nods, padding over toward the bed and climbing onto the sheets, maneuvering himself so that he can face the blue-tinged projection on the wall. He squirms a bit to get comfortable, and he doesn’t startle this time when JARVIS starts to speak, offering names of cats and other small tidbits. 

JARVIS is nice, and he can show him pictures of cats. Steve likes JARVIS. 

When Tony returns it’s to the sight of Steve sprawled out on his stomach, swinging his legs back and forth and giggling like mad at the projections on the wall that feature a few funny pictures from Tony’s MIT days, mostly silly hairstyles and outfits and poses. 

“You know, I definitely don’t remember compromising images being part of the deal,” Tony says as he enters.

“I wasn’t aware there _was_ a deal, Sir.” 

“Yeah. Sure you weren’t. Because it was a silent deal, a read-between-the-lines type thing.” 

He’s smiling as he approaches the bed, so Steve thinks he isn’t actually too upset. He gives Steve’s socked foot a playful poke. 

“Pajama time, kid.” 

Steve complies, albeit with a bit of a pout, standing up from the bed and allowing Tony to give his diaper one quick check before helping him out of his itchy jeans and into a pair of soft pants, covered all over by Iron Man’s logo. Steve’s movements are a little uncoordinated and his attempts to unbutton his coat are mostly fruitless, so Tony helps him out of the coat too, undoing the buttons and pulling it up off his shoulders. The shirt and the pants feel a lot less icky than his clothes did.

“Got your pacifier here, too,” Tony says, pulling it from his pocket, “noticed it on the floor when I was heading to the elevator. It’s all clean now.”

“Oops,” Steve mumbles, ducking his head. He didn’t remember dropping it. 

“Oops,” Tony agrees, “but that’s alright. If there’s any pacifier that deserves it it’s this one. We gotta get you a new one ASAP. J, put that on my to-do list.” 

“Already added, Sir.” 

He accepts the pacifier when Tony offers it to him, suckling happily as he watches Tony pull back the bed covers. Steve lingers there for a moment, unsure.

“Climb in, buddy,” Tony coaxes, which is all the encouragement he needs to clamber up onto the bed and lay his head down on the mound of soft pillows. Warm contentment swells inside his chest when Tony brings the blankets back down over him, drawing them up to Steve’s chin. He snuggles into the pillow as Tony tucks the covers in on either side of him, much like he had a few nights ago. 

“Wanna see something cool?” Tony asks.

Steve nods, squirming to watch as Tony pulls a device from his pocket, a small, sleek one that Steve doesn’t recognize. He taps away at it for a moment before swiping his hand upward, throwing a vast riot of holographic stars into the space above Steve’s head, the pale blue light they emanate piercing right through the darkness of the room. Steve lets out a gasp, worming one hand out from under the covers to draw it through one of the projections. It isn’t tangible, but it sure _looks_ it, and Steve allows his wide eyes to roam over each and every one. Tony adjusts something on the device and the stars explode even further outward, taking up a good portion of the room. Steve makes a noise of delight through the pacifier, which earns him a chuckle. The stars cast shadows all along the walls, along the slope of Tony’s neck and the curve of his smile as he pulls a chair over by the bed and takes a seat. 

“Starting to get the feeling I shouldn’t have shown you this before bedtime,” he says, as Steve stares upward, fascinated.

It’s another few minutes before Tony starts to coax Steve into closing his eyes, fingers running through the strands of his hair. There’s a soft timbre to his voice that washes over Steve like a gentle tide, that loosens any remaining tension in his muscles as he melts into his pillow. Between soft-spoken words and tender contact, Steve is gradually lulled into a light sleep.

For what had to be at least an hour or two, he drifted peacefully, only jolting to consciousness at the muffled sound of voices, floating in from the living space. Steve scrubs at his eyes for a moment, dread tightening in his chest when he registers the pitch-black darkness that fills the room. A fine strip of pale light glows beneath the door, but the faint glow it provides is not nearly enough to ward away the cold feeling that rushes through Steve’s veins, producing shivers that crawl all along his skin. 

Tony isn’t here, but Steve can definitely hear him, which puts him just a little more at ease. Something is pressing hard into his back, which he digs out with some difficulty, gasping quietly at the sight of his pacifier. He slips it into his mouth as he carefully raises the blankets and climbs out from the bed, arms wound around his midsection tightly. 

He’s relatively quiet about cracking the door open and padding along the hallway toward the voices, brows furrowing as he tries to parse the tones present. He stops short just by the corner, peering around into the living space. 

“Wait. _wait_. Alright. okay. So who’s your—“

Natasha shakes her head, crossing one leg over the other. “Save your breath, Stark.” 

“You don’t need me to call them or anything?” 

“If I want to get in contact, it’ll be on my terms.”

Tony nods, shifting on the couch. “Right. Guess that _does_ seem to be a running theme for you.” 

Silence falls for a moment. Steve considers wandering in, but he doesn’t want to interrupt them if they’re having an adult conversation. He lingers there for a moment, sucking anxiously on his pacifier. 

“I understand why you might not trust me,” Natasha says suddenly. Her expression remains neutral, like she’s throwing an idle comment about the weather out there.

Steve shifts his weight, shuffling his feet on the carpet for a moment. Neither of them hear him. 

A sharp-edged smile tugs at Tony’s mouth. “Oh, you do?” 

“I was following orders. Doing my job. But to most people, my loyalty is with SHIELD. I can see why that might be unsettling.” 

“See, the funny this is, I’m not sure your loyalty is with anyone.” 

A smile ghosts over Natasha’s lips. She continues. “Fury cares about you.”

Tony lets out a harsh laugh that makes Steve curl in on himself, grip tightening around his waist. “Now I know you’re yanking my chain.” 

“The very first person he contacted about that nuke was you. He trusted you. Still trusts you, to do the right thing when it comes down to it. But. The way he cares about people, it’s...complicated.”

“He’s a complicated man,” Tony agrees, “and that shows, in the fact that I swear I don’t know a single damn thing about him. Don’t even know his favorite ice cream flavor.” 

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “Mint chocolate.”

“Oh, he _so_ gives off that vibe too.” 

“He was hesitant, about you being an Avenger. Thought he might be compromised, because he worked so closely with Howard.”

“Yeah. I saw him sometimes, when I was younger. He came and sat with me. Gave me an engine part once. But what does that have to do with anything?’ 

She shrugs. “He was the only person who didn’t celebrate when you went through that wormhole. Fury is complicated. Wrong, sometimes. But he cares. That’s why I follow his orders. none of…” she hesitates, but only for a moment before pressing on, “none of the people I used to work for had one humane bone in their body.”

Tony nods slowly. “Alright. so, this is all just a roundabout way of saying...what, exactly?”

“I was wrong about you. You’re impulsive, sometimes. Reckless. But you care.”

Tony blinks. “For the record, not sure how I feel about that comparison to Fury. Or that—that part about being reckless—“

“It’s good to recognize where you’re compromised, Stark,” she says. 

“And where exactly are you compromised, then, Miss Widow?” 

“Why, you think I’ll just tell you?” 

Tony shrugs. “Is the implication there that I’m supposed to figure it out for myself or what?” 

“That eager for a puzzle?”

“I don’t know, reducing you to a puzzle feels a bit ungentlemanly. Was that a test, by the way? Did I pass?” 

Natasha regards him for a moment before turning toward the TV, the barest hint of a smile on her face. “It’s Clint.” 

“Clint, as in...? What. Throw me a bone, here.” He pauses for a beat. Then, realization dawns steadily on his face. “Oh. Oh! Right. Yeah. Great. Nice to know.” 

“You have questions.”

“ _So_ many. It’s actually taking everything inside me right now not to ask them, that’s how respectful I’m being.” 

Natasha smirks, and her eyes must catch movement, because her gaze snaps toward Steve. He looks guiltily down at the ground, a blush warming his face. 

“We have company,” she notes. 

Tony turns in his seat, eyebrows raising when he catches sight of Steve. 

“Hey there, kiddo. What are you doing up?” 

Steve shuffles out into the open, sucking adamantly on his pacifier. He reaches his arms out toward Tony, who gets the hint pretty quickly, standing up from the couch and approaching the hall.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep?” he asks, as he takes Steve’s hand, guiding him back toward the room. 

Steve nods, using the hand that’s not otherwise occupied to latch onto Tony’s arm. Tony gives him a brief squeeze of acknowledgment as he nudges the door open, allowing warm light to spill in through the entryway. He pulls out the bedcovers for Steve, who reluctantly detaches himself just long enough to climb into bed and get settled. 

Tony sends a glance down at the fingers Steve still has twisted up into the hem of his shirt and chuckles. “Looks like you got me pretty trapped here.” 

Steve removes his pacifier. “Tony stay?”

He watches for a moment as conflict flashes over Tony’s face. His shoulders lower a little, expression caught somewhere between fond warmth and resignation. 

“Alright. But I’ll have to get changed real quick, because I’ve woken up in jeans enough to last me a lifetime and it is literally _never_ a fun experience. Also, I’ll have to show Romanoff to a spare bedroom, or a car, depending on whether she’s bunking over or not, so.” 

Steve widens his eyes, his other hand flying out to clutch onto Tony’s shirt. Tony lets out a sigh, running warm palms along Steve’s arms.

“Man, you’re killing me. But it has to be done, sorry to say. I’ll try make it quick, alright?”

He stops short all of a sudden, eyes snapping to Steve’s face. They narrow for a moment, analyzing, before widening once more. 

“Are you shivering?” he asks, frowning down at the hairs that are raised all along Steve’s arms. “I mean. JARVIS has the thermostat set to its normal temperature. Plus, you’re like a supersoldier heater as far as I’m concerned…” he trails off, his gaze glazing over for a few lingering moments, attention focused inwardly rather than outwardly. 

Another frown creases his forehead, eyes shining with tangible concern even through the darkness. “Do you get cold in the dark?” 

Steve hesitates for a beat before nodding, quick and anxious. He knows that he’s not really cold, but his body still likes to make him think that he is. 

“Huh. That’s interesting. Like a sense memory thing or something? From the ice?” 

When Steve blinks uncomprehendingly, Tony nods. “Right. Guess that’s another one of those ‘file away for later’ things. For now, let’s turn that lamp on and see how we feel, alright?” 

He takes Steve’s hands in a gentle grip and carefully places them back on the covers, rounding the red and flicking on the lamp. It casts a warm glow across the walls that eases some of the worry in Steve’s gut. 

“I’ll be right back, I promise. JARVIS is here if you need anything.” 

Tony gives his tummy a pat before heading over toward the door, making sure to leave it wide open on his way out. Steve curls up into a ball beneath the covers and snuggles into his pillow. He counts as high as he can before restarting, he imagines fluffy cats and twinkling stars and giant lollipops. 

Sheer relief floods his system when he hears muted footsteps padding along the carpet, and he rolls over just in time to see Tony’s briefly shadowed form in the doorway, the details of his face coming into clearer view as he steps into the glow of the lamp. He’s wearing grey pajama pants and a graphic tee with a robot on it, soft and worn around the edges with time, a thread loose here and there. He climbs in under the covers and Steve shuffles closer, curling up on his side to face him. Tony maneuvers himself into a similar position, briefly reaching out to brush his knuckles along the side of Steve’s face. 

“Think you’ll be able to sleep now?” 

Steve gives a tired nod, eyelashes fluttering. “Night, Tony,” he mumbles, the words muffled by his pacifier.

“Night, kid.” He hears rather than sees the tender smile in Tony’s voice. 

~

Steve awakes at the cusp of dawn, a deep orange pressing at the blinds that casts a faint peach-colored glow across the room. He blinks bleary eyes open for a moment, takes a second to acclimatize, then jolts with shock when he realizes he isn’t in his bed. The smoothly textured silk sheets, the pillows that perfectly coast the line between soft and firm, the crisply layered blankets. It isn’t long before the memories flood his brain, right down to every last excruciating detail. The disastrous attempts at holding himself together during that SHIELD briefing, repeatedly asking to see Tony, clinging to him like a limpet. Sometimes, Steve really finds himself wishing he didn’t have a perfectly eidetic memory, despite how handy it can come in out on the field. 

He throws an arm over his eyes, tries hard to breathe against the flashes of memory bombarding him. A minute ticks over before he manages to get his limbs moving, gets himself sitting up in bed. He sends a glance toward the twisted covers on the other end of the bed that hang askew, before reaching out to run his palm along them. 

No lingering warmth. Tony didn’t get up recently. 

His brain races with the different paths he could take, the pros and cons of each, but a more pressing matter comes to his attention, in the form of the squishy diaper he’s currently still wearing, most definitely used overnight. Steve just barely manages to tamp down on the humiliation that surges inside his chest, sharp and hot. Now’s not the time to feel embarrassed. 

It’s a scarily similar course of action to the one he’d taken the last time he’d stayed overnight; biting back the bitter taste of humiliation on his tongue as he retreats to the ensuite bathroom and cleans himself up, disposing of the diaper in the diaper pail, the same pail that seems to populate virtually every bathroom in Stark Tower, as well as the few public bathrooms he’d visited since the ice. The first time he’d left his cubicle, he’d found himself watching the expressions on the other mens’ faces intently, awaiting some small glimpse of disgust or contempt or...or anything _but_ the totally casual demeanor they’d exhibited. 

Steve thoroughly washes his hands and exits the ensuite like he’s on a clandestine operation of some kind, peering around corners and startling at any sign of life (and yeah, maybe his reaction to that coat draped over a chair had been a _tad_ dramatic.) 

The bedroom door is open just a crack, casting a thin sliver of light across the carpet. He can hear puttering from the kitchen, socked footsteps against tiles, a mechanical sort of noise he’s come to associate with modern-day coffee machines. 

Steve can’t help but feel JARVIS’ presence like a silent judgemental weight as he lingers by the entryway for a moment, despite the positive interactions they’ve shared thus far. It’s a little discomforting, knowing that an AI is looming with the ability to watch over virtually all activity in the tower. He wonders briefly if that ever gets to Tony, and comes up with the funny feeling that it really doesn’t. 

Alright. He’s just stalling, now. 

He grips the door handle and nudges the frame open, stepping out into the hall and setting his shoulders a little straighter as he approaches the open-plan living space. Nothing but a speckled marble island separates the kitchen from the rest of the expansive room, but Steve knows there isn’t really any avoiding this interaction, even if there were partitions in place. He thinks that might be for the better. He’s no stickler for total honesty at all times, but some things shouldn’t remain in the balance. It’s not like being straightforward hasn’t gotten him anywhere. 

Tony looks a little frazzled when Steve reaches the countertop. A few dark grease stains smudge his face and his hair is in disarray, flecks of something like... _sawdust?_ clinging to the strands. He’s nursing a mug of coffee, and his brown eyes gleam when they land on Steve. 

“Hey, soldier. You’re looking a little depleted. Coffee? Does caffeine even affect you? Honestly, there are so many variables with your body, let me tell you, a scientist could have a _field day_ with you.” 

The barely-concealed nervousness reassures Steve in a surprisingly major way — they’re both wading unfamiliar territory, here. 

“Uh, no. Caffeine doesn’t really affect me. I like the taste though,” he offers, as he tentatively rounds the counter.

“Drinking coffee for the taste? Wow. Cultured. Howard would’ve appreciated that.” 

“He didn’t seem to drink a lot of coffee back in the day.” 

Tony waves him off, approaching the coffee machine and fiddling around with its screen for a moment. “Trials and tribulations of running SHIELD in its infancy stages. Regular milk okay? Or have you already discovered almond milk or something?” 

“Regular milk’s fine,” he confirms. 

Steve had, in fact, come across some of those plant-based kinds of milk in the store, but he hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to try any of them yet. He can see how they could be good alternatives, especially for people with intolerances or allergies. Dairy was one of those things he couldn’t stand a lot of before the serum.

The coffee machine begins to churn away while Tony turns to face him. He clears his throat.

“So how about this weather, huh?” 

“Tony.” 

“Hey, look, that was for your sake! Giving you a free out if you need it. Because, you know, I’m considerate like that.” 

Steve sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not really sure what to say.” 

“Alright. Well that’s fine. I don’t mind going first — I’m used to it, in fact.” He turns to transfer the mug to a different station, tapping another button on the screen. Steve knows for a fact that most modern-day coffee machines don’t have such a complicated-looking touch screen. 

“Sugar?” 

“I’m good, thanks.” 

Tony nods and passes him the steaming mug of coffee, flashing a smile at Steve’s murmured ‘thanks.’ 

He leans back against the counter once more, reaching for his own mug of coffee. 

“Okay. Alright.” Tony inhales deeply, letting it out again in a rush. “Bear with me here, alright? Just gonna preface this by saying there’s a whole lot of qualified Caregivers out there, Cap. Your situation is pretty, well, _unique_ , but there’s people out there that can deal with unique. They’ve probably spent a good part of their lives dealing with unique. JARVIS has a list compiled with some good Caregivers, barring all those celebrity ones, because I’d trust SHIELD before I trust them.” 

Steve cringes inwardly at the thought. He appreciates the effort, of course, but...he’s still not entirely sold on a professional Caregiver. He’d done some research of his own, and a lot of them seem to have a pretty... _firm_ approach when it comes to being little on a schedule, renovating aspects of houses, always having a big person nearby. Not to mention the stringent set of rules that each of them come with, some more negotiable than others. The very thought of some professional he barely knows imposing rules on him has his hackles raising.

“...So. There’s that. Uh, as an option. I can have JARVIS forward you their details.” He hesitates here, which is somewhat of a rare occurrence when it comes to Tony Stark. “There’s also. Well, that is to say, if you think that’s not really your _thing_ , then. I wouldn’t mind stepping in either.” 

His eyes dart up to Steve’s face, clearly scanning for a reaction. Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again, lashes fluttering rapidly. 

“Obviously that’s just me throwing things out there,” he continues hurriedly, “I’m not gonna resent you or anything if that’s not something you want. I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “In the least guilt-trippy way possible, it’s pretty obvious I haven’t exactly been around the block. But I’d—be willing to do as much as I can. Learning-wise, I mean. Apart from the textbooks I’ve already inhaled, that is. Pretty sure Pep’s concerned for my well-being at this point, which isn’t exactly unusual, but still.”

Steve’s pretty sure his heart has leaped up into his throat and lodged itself there. He can feel the thrum of it in his skull and the echo of it in its ears. 

“You’d want that?” he asks, well aware there’s a note of disbelief wound through his tone. 

Tony shrugs, eyes darting away from Steve’s for a moment. “Yeah. Surprising, right?” He straightens a little, drumming his free hand against the countertop. Steve’s not sure if he’s ever seen him so visibly nervous. “This whole classification thing, it’s only ever felt like a nuisance. Feeling like I have this dependence that’s out of my control. I mean, I already have my vices, right, are we just stockpiling here?” Steve’s mind flashes to that interview he’d watched when he was first looking into the other Avengers, about Tony giving up alcohol. “But lately it’s been feeling more and more like it could be a positive thing. Pretty sure I don’t have to tell you that you’re the biggest variable change for me over the past month. And yeah, that includes our planet being under siege by a god and a bunch of aliens, just for the record.” 

Steve can’t help but falter slightly at the honesty that’s on display. Tony is obviously throwing himself out there, which isn’t exactly uncharacteristic of him, if Steve thinks about it, but this _emotional_ vulnerability? He’s not entirely sure what to do with it. He can’t help but feel a little more open himself, slackening his posture and unfolding his arms as he takes another sip of coffee, just for something to do. 

If Tony’s coming out with all this, then Steve should be upfront too. It’s only fair.

“I still don’t like the idea of all this,” he admits, “not sure if I’ll ever be used to the way people go about classifications these days, either.” Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I thought the serum would change my classification, when I signed up for that experiment. I thought it’d make me a neutral. When it didn’t, I was disappointed. I snapped out of it, obviously. That wasn’t the reason I signed up. On one hand, it made me realize that my classification wasn’t some medical condition that could be fixed. On the other hand, I still don’t like that part of me. Don’t like dropping if I’ve gone too long.”

Tony nods slowly. His lack of snarky quips at the moment is just a little unsettling. Steve had rapidly grown used to his almost constant banter. 

“I mean, hey, I don’t like it either,” Tony offers, “the physical symptoms, that is. Not that they’re anything close to having a headspace, but.” He shrugs. “There’s a lot of people out there that don’t like this whole thing either. Doesn’t matter which way you look at, we’re all just adapting to our biology. Trying to—control it, understand it, work with it, whatever. That’s confusing sometimes. Sort of annoying, too.” Steve smiles just a little, which has a matching smile twitching on Tony’s face. “Don’t give me that look. I get a free pass to go all philosophical right now, alright? Just look inspired and contemplative for a minute.” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “You’re not wrong. I just…” he sobers, the smile falling from his lips, “you’d really want to be a Caregiver?” 

Tony nods. “Yeah. I mean. There are some logistics there, obviously, a few things to talk through, boundaries and all that stuff. But it’s not some official attachment. Just a—you know, a maybe. A trial period, even. Definitely not gonna be marching up to SHIELD headquarters anytime soon to fill out a bunch of Caregiver-Little paperwork, that’s for sure. I’d have to have at _least_ a month’s notice for dealing with that sort of bureaucracy, or my brain would melt out of my ears. No exaggeration.” 

Steve thinks for a moment. If he’s going to comfortable with anyone as his Caregiver then, in all fairness, it would probably be Tony. They’re equally inexperienced, which creates somewhat of a level playing field, despite the position of power Tony would be placed in during Steve’s time being small. He shudders a little at the thought. He’s not quite sure if he’ll be able to reconcile with that aspect of things. But...Tony _had_ been good with him, during headspace. Not overly pushy or demanding. It would definitely put him in a better position if he were with Tony during a drop, rather than alone, with Stark Tower’s stringent security and Tony’s suits. He’d be far less of a liability. 

“Can I think about it?” he asks finally. He’s always been pretty good with quick decisions out on the field, but this is something he’d like to mull over at least a little more. Nothing excessive, just...some time, that’s all.

Tony extends the arm that’s not holding his coffee mug. “By all means. Offer’s not going anywhere. And it’s not like, a done-deal or anything. Just let me know when you’ve thought about it.” 

Steve nods, and he’s sure the gratefulness glowing inside his chest must shine through in his smile. He takes another sip of his coffee.

“That conversation with Natasha,” he starts, tentatively.

Tony glances upward. “What about it?” 

“Would I be right in guessing she’s…?” Steve flushes, embarrassed. He can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at having overheard that conversation, even while little. 

Tony’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the sink, setting down his mug. “In theory, she may or may not be someone you could talk to. In terms of... _shared experience."_

Steve nods. “Right. Got it.” 

The early morning sunlight that pours in through the window turns certain sections of Tony’s unruly hair a honeyed gold as he flits about the kitchen, collecting some supplies for pancakes and snarking about which topping options are better, about _Pepper obviously being wrong in every single way when she claims chocolate chip pancakes are superior to blueberry pancakes._

“Oh, by the way, Cap, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that smoothie. I am, if nothing else, a man of my word.” 

Steve smiles. 

It feels as though some intangible weight has been lifted from his shoulders, putting a certain lightness in his step that hadn’t been there previously. 

He thinks…

He thinks he feels okay.

~ 

It’s not too much of a process, inviting Natasha to stay behind at SHIELD headquarters with him for a few rounds of training. The sky is black outside, but there are still a few agents left in their offices, casting light out into the darkened corridors. Their respective bags lay discarded on the hardwood floor somewhere to their right, the only sounds that fill the gym are their quick breaths and the thud of their footsteps against the mat, accompanied occasionally by a grunt or two, particularly when one of them manages to disarm the other. 

“You’re pulling your punches,” she accuses breathlessly, wiping at some of the sweat that’s gathered on her forehead. She tightens her ponytail, huffing when her hair tie gives out. They’ve been at this for a while. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says, as he adjusts his footing. 

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “I’ll try not to take that personally.” 

“It’s nothing personal,” he rushes to say, “just...the serum—“

“Didn’t give you perfect combat skills,” she finishes, getting back into position, “show me what you got, soldier.” 

Steve doesn’t let go entirely — he has a sort of mental block when it comes to unleashing his full strength on anyone but a hostile — but it’s a close fight, and he gets a swiftly healed bruise on his cheek to show for it. Eventually, he gets Natasha pinned, which evens out their running score. Steve may have the serum going for him, but Natasha has a lifetime’s practice in subduing larger opponents. 

Their harsh pants fill the relative quiet of the gym. She smiles up at him, glowing with exertion. 

“Look at us. Two Littles, trying to prove we’re just as tough as the rest of them.” 

Steve tries to hide his shock at the open admission, sitting back on his haunches. “There’s nothing to prove.”

“You really think that?” 

He hesitates. “I’d like to.” 

The smile on Natasha’s face softens just a fraction. She accepts the hand that Steve offers.

“I never got the chance to thank you. For helping me out on Monday. I appreciate it.”

“No need,” she dismisses, tossing her combat knife up into the air. She pauses, regards him with an interested gleam in her eye. “It’s been a while for you,” she notes, “if you were dropping involuntarily.”

Steve rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Still experimenting, I guess.” 

Natasha nods, wandering over to her bag for a bottle of water. “Stark ask to be your Caregiver, yet?” 

Steve feels his face warm in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with exertion. Briefly, he can’t help but wonder what else they discussed while he was in bed. “Yeah. That’s, uh. That’s part of the reason I wanted to talk with you.” 

“What, you mean you didn’t invite me here just to train?” she asks wryly, smirking a little when Steve lets out a huff. 

“That obvious, huh?” 

“You have your tells,” she agrees, “not a bad thing, necessarily. Not when you’re a soldier.” 

Steve thinks he gets what she means. Even now, he’s struggling to get a read on where her head is at — it should be unsettling, but there are flickering moments, brief glimpses of _Natasha_ rather than the Black Widow, enough for him to know that she’s just as human as anyone else. 

“I guess...I just have a question or two. You don’t have to answer,” he clarifies, “not if you don’t want to.” 

Natasha nods, swiping a hand across her mouth and setting her drink bottle back down. “Hit me.” 

Steve sucks in a deep, even breath. “You have a Caregiver,” he starts. Natasha nods again. “How do you deal with...with the control part of things? Like, as in—“

“I get what you mean,” she says, as she approaches the mat once more. She lingers there for a while, gaze distant. “Rules,” she says finally, “not just for me, or for you, or for any Little. Rules for the Caregiver. What they can and can’t do. What they _should_ do. Both in headspace and out of headspace. Rules they have to stick to no matter what.” 

Steve considers this for a moment. He’d seen an awful lot of information about setting rules and expectations for Littles in these kinds of relationships, but he hasn’t seen an awful lot of the reverse. 

“That makes sense.” 

“It does,” Natasha agrees, as she begins to stretch out her arms, “some Caregivers are weird about that, though. Think that rules shouldn’t apply to them.”

Steve frowns. “Not very fair of them.” He hesitates, before asking, “think Tony’d be like that?”

“In this context? I doubt it. Think he’d be relieved. Knowing what he can and can’t do might settle his brain a bit. Keep it from running away from him.”

He nods. That makes sense, if he thinks about it. Tony hasn’t treated him any differently outside of headspace, and he certainly hasn’t given Steve any reason to believe he’d balk at a set of rules.

“You can still have control, Steve. Even with an arrangement like this. Took me a while to realize that.”

Silence falls over them for a moment, not uncomfortable by any means. Having someone on the team with the same classification as him, someone who’s experienced a lot of the things he has, it brings him an inexplicable sort of comfort, one that’s hard to fully describe. He feels at ease, feels a buzzing warmth inside his chest that seems to loosen his tongue a bit.

“What if I don’t want control,” he blurts, before he can think twice about it, “what if I just want to feel...safe?” 

Natasha studies him for a beat, but her gaze isn’t overly sharp or scrutinizing. “That’s a form of control. Knowing that you’ll be safe when you’re vulnerable. Doesn’t mean you’re totally in charge, just means you have the tools to make yourself feel safe. Starting things when you want to, ending things when you want to, safe-wording. That sort of thing.”

Steve nods, and there’s another brief lapse in conversation as they go about their specific wind-down routines, sheathing weapons and gathering up their belongings.

He turns to her during one particular stretch. “Do you ever drop involuntarily?” 

Natasha shakes her head. “I can’t afford that. Not in this line of work. The more regularly you drop, the more you can...control it.”

“How often?”

“There’s no hard and fast rule. It varies. There are signs, when I know I need it.” 

Steve can’t help but wish there _were_ a hard and fast rule, something that he can strictly adhere to, that takes the guess-work out of all of this. 

Natasha must see some of the hesitance that lingers in Steve’s expression, because she gracefully maneuvers herself into a standing position, approaching casually. Steve straightens too.

“So long as you’ve got rules for both parties, then you shouldn’t have to worry, Steve.”

“What if I get... _dependent?_ On having him there?”

“That’s the point of having a relationship like this. Being able to depend on someone. You’ll just have to decide whether that trade-off is worth it for you.” 

He considers this. “Was it worth it for you?” 

“Yes,” she answers, not missing a beat. There’s a subtle shift in her expression, in the way it softens around the edges. 

Steve believes her. 

“...Alright. Final Question. How do you feel about ice cream?” he asks.

Natasha offers him a small smile as she slings her bag over her shoulder, nodding toward the double door.

“After you, soldier.” 

~ 

Later that night, with the pale moonlight flooding in through his window and the humming chirp of crickets just outside his apartment, Steve rummages around for his phone and dials a familiar number. 

The glow his screen emanates washes over his hands. They’re steady. 

“Captain,” Tony’s voice greets from the other end of the line, “are we setting a precedent here for late-night calls or what? Seriously, this is getting—“

“I want to try,” he says, which gets him a stunned silence that’s just a shade lengthy.

“You...that is, you want to...try the whole Caregiver thing?”

“I do,” he confirms, with a certainty that surprises even him. 

Another pause. 

“Great! Cool. That’s—yeah. Okay. Are you sure?” 

_Not entirely,_ Steve thinks.

Still, it’s Tony, and he’s starting to get the idea that might just be okay. 

“Sure enough.” 

“Cool,” Tony says, and Steve can just imagine him rapidly nodding his head.

He huffs a laugh. “Cool,” he confirms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i tell you what a Journey writing this chapter was... ( also?? communication in an mcu fic??? ) 
> 
> sidenote, i fell down a rabbit hole of information about calico cats while writing this chapter, and i found out about one in every 3,000 calico cats is born a male, which was totally something i already knew and accounted for ha ha ha, anyway, rosie is on the road to being officially adopted! yay! 
> 
> as always, i hope you enjoyed the chapter !! <33


End file.
